


a world about to dawn

by Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: même la nuit la plus sombre prendra [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Actual Human Disaster Marius Pontmercy, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Asexual Character, Asexual Enjolras, Barricade Day, Enjolras doesn’t need no romance to provide enough drama for three people, Enjolras likes to criticize Les Misérables, Eponine has the worst luck in love, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Grantaire fails at life, Hurt/Comfort, Javert and Valjean are ambiguous life partners, Javert comes from the Dean Winchester school of dealing with feelings, Javert's Existential Crisis, M/M, Multi, Oblivious Enjolras, Pining, So does Marius, They’re all overachieving college students, onesided e/r
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 20:11:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11111988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: In which there's reincarnation, overworked college students, sexuality discussions, pining, and everyone is a human disaster waiting to happen.





	a world about to dawn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Worldweaver3791](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Worldweaver3791/gifts).



> In celebration of Barricade Day, I've decided to publish my first _Les Misérables _fic because why not.__
> 
> I've had a go at the American political system, so I think it's only fair that I have a go at the French system as well. I’m warning that, while I tried to do my research, I more or less drowned in the chaos that is the French political system.
> 
> So. Continuing Victor Hugo's legacy (although probably not in the way he had intended. Oh well). Also, the style varies between modern and a little old-fashioned. Sorry in advance. Still trying to get used to this.
> 
> In this ‘verse, if you’ve known another person well in your past life, you tend to recognize their reincarnation. (Kind of like every reincarnate recognizing Alexander as president on TV, for those of you who have read my other reincarnation ‘verse.)
> 
> This takes place in 2000-ish for Reasons, but I’ve moved up the technological revolution and development of the terminology required to discuss asexuality. Side note: in 2000, the term ‘social justice warrior’ still had primarily positive connotations. It first got its bad rep in 2011 through Twitter.

Enjolras watched the arch-formed entrance to the university, a knot slowly forming in his stomach. He was nervous; to pretend otherwise would be foolish and counterproductive. Even though this wasn't, per se, his first day at a university—that honour belonged to a cloudy September day far too long ago to remember—it appeared that some things were of that kind to which one never quite got used. Starting university was one of them.

Not unlike the last time, he chose law. Although times have changed, they had not changed sufficiently to render lawyers obsolete; nothing would have made Enjolras happier than if that had been the case, because anything else meant that the process commonly known as the progress of humankind had not yet reached its destination. In this day and age, Enjolras comprehended, equality for all was achieved first and foremost through courts, through making sure that all people, destitute as well as rich, received equal representation before that arbitrator who was to decide their fate.

It was his wont to give into such musings—just as it was Combeferre's to interject anytime Enjolras' thoughts became too convoluted or too daunting—or both, at times. Combeferre also had the bad fortune of being subjected to Enjolras' frequent rants, the topics ranging everywhere from social injustice and sexuality, to the imperceptible privilege of the bourgeoisie.

Enjolras has known Combeferre since they were children. Combeferre was Enjolras' first friend at kindergarten, when the two had struck up a friendship right off the bat—probably influenced to some extent, on Enjolras' part, by his former memories—and had stuck together ever since. Combeferre was Enjolras' closest friend—if Enjolras was being realistic, his _only_ friend. Enjolras had an effect on people that tended to keep them at a distance. (Combeferre once described it as Enjolras being too Extra for any normal person to socialize with him for a prolonged period of time.)

When his parents first met Combeferre, they thought Combeferre's name hilarious. “History buffs, your parents were, eh?” they said when Enjolras introduced Combeferre. “Then again, so are we,” Enjolras' mother smiled as she gestured at Enjolras.

At the time, neither of the boys had understood the full meaning behind the words; Combeferre had been merely a child, while Enjolras' cognitive abilities were still in the development phase, despite the double set of memories.

This was another peculiar thing about Enjolras: he had always known that he was an old soul, and had never made a secret of that fact, even when he was shunned for it by his old classmates, reincarnates not exactly having a stellar reputation. Reincarnation was a pseudo-legitimate science—people claimed to have evidence of it, some even holding up to thorough investigations, but no scientist as of yet has been able to wrap their mind around the specific mechanics involving the transfer of a soul from one body to another, let alone a soul staying in limbo for an indefinite period of time between the lives.

Enjolras had never needed to tell his parents about his past life—it was one of the unspoken things between them—the sun was a ball of gas, Dairy Queen was a legitimate breakfast place, and Enjolras was an ancient soul. It helped that Enjolras had been a precocious child.

Combeferre hadn't always remembered; in fact, one could say that Enjolras knew about his friend's past life before Combeferre himself did. Befriending Combeferre, when Enjolras thought back on it, had been instinctual, and Enjolras had always, on some level, known that his Combeferre was the same as the Combeferre in his somewhat disjointed memories.

Enjolras did realize that he had hitherto led what one might call the perfect life: lucking out on both the intellect and the looks (although he could have done without the latter, for all he cared), caring and understanding parents, a perfect 20-point average at school, as well as an ability to convince people of anything after a five-minute conversation with them, caring and understanding parents, a monthly allowance that was higher than what the average citizen earned in a year (again, it hadn't been something he had asked for, and he almost never touched the money, it reminding him too much of the privileged upper middle class he despised), Enjolras couldn't say that he lacked anything. It was, among the reasons, though not the primary reason, his enormous fortune that drive him to helping those who had not won the proverbial life lottery. There were hundreds of thousands, if not outright _millions_ , of people who had trouble at school or at home, or who did not have the same economical carte blanche as he did. Becoming a lawyer was one way he could go about that—taking on pro bono cases and so on.

Whereas most people only mentioned the lower working class in passing, or with forced sympathy, or to compare themselves with them in order to feel superior about their life, Enjolras genuinely wanted to help the poor, the unfortunate, the wretched—the rejects of society, so to speak.

Enjolras' teachers had only tried to get him to participate in debates once; unfortunately, the topic had been the legitimacy of gender as a social concept. Enjolras took almost savage pleasure in absolutely tearing apart his teacher's feeble attempts at arguments, at the same time showing the potential to be a redoubtable force in the courts.

After the _lycée_ , Combeferre had, without a moment's hesitation, chosen to pick up where he had left off, so to speak—in other words, medicine. With his grades and merits, he could get into any university he wanted—Harvard and Oxford would have been glad to have him—but he followed Enjolras into l'École Normale Supérieure. “Besides,” Combeferre added with a grin, “it's not as if there aren't international exchanges. I've already looked into it.”

A yapping cut through Enjolras' musings. He looked down, smiling absentmindedly as he petted the dog next to him. Two years back, Combeferre had adopted a stray dog—according to the vet, it was a mix between a Border Collie and a labrador—and insisted on bringing Spock to college. This morning, Combeferre had a meeting with one of the advisors at École Normale Supérieure, leaving Enjolras with dog-sitting duty.

Since he didn't have a class until the afternoon, Enjolras decided to kill two birds with one stone and familiarize himself with the campus while walking Spock. Quite a few students approached them, under the pretext of petting the mutt, but something about that felt… off to Enjolras. They were smiling too much for it to be just the dog. He put it into the back of his mind for later consideration.

Combeferre returned at around noon. They decided to grab lunch at a nearby Subway, despite Enjolras' complaining about the clear catering to the modern bourgeoisie. “It's just called middle class these days,” Combeferre rolled his eyes at Enjolras' antics.

“Speaking of odd manners these days,” Enjolras continued blithely; Combeferre snorted at the rough subject transition, “have you noticed how oddly everyone seems to behave around here?”

“Oddly?” Combeferre echoed, nonplussed. “I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific.”

“They're“—Enjolras made vague gestures around them—“smiling at me.”

“That doesn't usually constitute as 'odd',” Combeferre returned. “One might even go so far as to argue that it's a positive thing.”

“Not smiles like that,” Enjolras insisted.

Just then, a chirpy young woman walked up to the two roommates, directing a bright smile at Enjolras. “Hello there,” she said. “I've got a proposal: how about you help me with math? Say, tomorrow afternoon?” she said, her voice full of hope.

Enjolras narrowed his eyes. “I am a law student. It is doubtful whether my understanding of mathematics at the level at which you are doubtlessly studying exceeds yours. Therefore, I would not be able to help; I might go as far as to say that my presence would be a hindrance to you.”

The woman's smile faltered for a moment before she recovered. “In that case, maybe you'll want to teach me a little about _law_?” she teased him.

Enjolras saw Combeferre stifle a smile, and glared balefully at his friend for deriving amusement from his suffering. He sighed as he turned back to the woman. “Law would be of no interest to you, as a science student. Furthermore, I have neither the time nor the will to teach it to you.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “Well, it was nice talking to you, _o' god among mortals_ ,” she said sarcastically, a little hurt in her voice. She left their table as quickly as she had arrived.

Now that they were alone again, Enjolras glanced at Combeferre, who had hitherto succeeded in reigning in his laughter. “See?” Enjolras gestured at the place where the woman had been standing. “This is precisely the kind of smiles I had been talking about. They are unsettling.”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre drawled, not quite able to hide the amusement in his voice, “she had been _flirting_ with you, my oblivious friend.”

Enjolras blinked. This hadn't been what he had been expecting. “Flirting?” he echoed. “But why would she—“ he suddenly stopped, annoyance gliding over his features. “Are you telling me that all those people had been _flirting_ with me?” he demanded. “Why would they concern themselves with _that_ on their first day at university, when literally anything else would be more productive?”

It was Combeferre's turn to sigh. He rested his face on his right hand as he mentally considered how to explain this. “I know that you neither pay attention nor put any value in romantic advances, but that is not the case for the majority of the population. For most of us, romance is a necessary part of life.”

“That is an _incredibly_ limiting lifestyle,” Enjolras told him haughtily.

Combeferre shrugged. “I don't notice it, really, just as you don't notice the _lack_ of it. No objective reference point, mon ami.”

Enjolras scoffed, but dropped the subject in favour of a more relevant one. “What did you want to talk to your advisor about, if I may ask?”

Combeferre smirked. “I had simply noticed that, since I had Tuesdays and Thursdays pretty much free, I could sign up for an additional class.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. Leave it to Combeferre to enroll in a medical program, then decide that he sacrifice his free periods in favour of a class which, in all probability, didn't have anything to do with his future career, instead of scheduling study periods during his days off. “What's the class?” Pottery, he suspected. Or handiwork. Although, knowing Combeferre's baffling fascination with just about any subject, it might just as well be astrophysics.

Combeferre's smirk widened. “French history. The nineteenth century.”

Enjolras stilled. “You didn't,” he said disbelievingly.

“I did,” Combeferre confirmed smugly.

Enjolras shook his head. “What's the point in taking a course that you can pass in your sleep—and you know I'm not exaggerating, since that's exactly what you did back in la terminale.”

Combeferre shrugged. “Easy credits. A nice diversion from med school. An opportunity to correct undisputed historical 'facts' established long after an event, by someone not present at the event in question. Take your pick. Think of it this way: you've got a minor in polisci to amuse you, and I've got my history class.”

“You are a virtual fountain of information. You know that, right?” Enjolras couldn't keep a smile from his lips.

“I do aim to please,” Combeferre grinned. He looked at the clock and swore profusely. “I’m late for my seminar. This is going _splendidly_.”

Enjolras likewise checked the time. He had twenty-seven minutes until his first lecture. “Then go,” he prompted. “I’ll take care of the tab.”

Combeferre nearly sighed in relief. “You’re a life-saver.”

For some reason, those words penetrated Enjolras’ defenses, tearing through his very being, and he shuddered almost imperceptibly.

* * *

Four days in, Enjolras found his favourite coffee shop. It was a quaint little building, on the outskirts of the university, within walking distance, ensuring that Enjolras did not have to rely on public transport, yet far enough for Enjolras to be able to work in peace without risking running into any of the garrulous classmates that the campus itself seemed to be teeming with.

He brought his laptop, intending to get started on his assignments, and to finish the article he had been working on for his blog. It was a fairly popular political blog, leaning heavily towards liberalism, which Enjolras had been running for three years now. It gave him the chance to, lacking the possibility to hold corporeal protests, still affect the political sphere. It had taken him the better part of those three years, but the crops finally yielded results: his was now the leading political website not espousing the views of a specific party; while Enjolras agreed with the majority of the doctrines of the Parti socialiste, there were several points on which his opinions diverged—case in point: the acceptance, or the lack thereof, of market economy by the PS, which was a necessity for a sustaintable national economy.

The current post was about the controversial topic of stem cell research, in which, for reasons Enjolras was unable to fathom, politicians felt the need to impose their will.

 

> _“… research involving human pluripotent stem cells promises new treatments and possible cures for many debilitating diseases and injuries, including Parkinson's disease, diabetes, heart disease, multiple sclerosis, burns and spinal cord injuries. It is the belief of this author that the potential medical benefits of human pluripotent stem cell technology are compelling and worthy of pursuit in accordance with appropriate ethical standards.”_

Someone sat down next to him, startling Enjolras. “Working already?” Combeferre smiled, pushing a coffee in front of Enjolras.

Enjolras grabbed it silently, drinking almost half of the mug in one go. “There’s just so much to do.”

“Isn’t there always?” Combeferre intoned rhetorically, but didn’t try to stop Enjolras. Instead, he took out his anatomy textbook and flipped to the neurology section, murmuring something about the hypothalamus’ role in the hormone system.

They fell into a comfortable rhythm of studying and writing, punctuated only by Enjolras’ intermittent scowls.

At one point, Enjolras reached for his coffee mug, only to notice that it was empty. He huffed in annoyance, causing Combeferre to look up, an amused smile on his lips when he perceived the cause of Enjolras’ irritation. “The counter is over there,” he said, pointing to the cash register. “We need to leave soon if we don’t want to be late for the Jeunes socialistes meeting. It’s quite far.”

Enjolras nodded, packing up his laptop into his bag next to the assignments.

It was quick work to order the coffee. Although he had only been to this coffee shop a total of three times, the staff already knew Enjolras’ order by heart, which made ordering much more efficient. He paid them, tipping far more than was appropriate; he figured that if he had to use his wealth on anything, he preferred to bequeath them to the needy, either in the form of donations to charity, or leaving obscene tips to workers on low wages.

Enjolras stepped away from the counter, coffee in hand, and ran straight into someone. The other person swore as Enjolras' coffee spilled all over his grey shirt. Enjolras drew in a sharp breath. “I'm terribly sorry,” he said, watching the liquid soak through the material. “Let me make it up to you,” he added, then lifted his gaze at the person in front of him. He froze, his eyes widening in realization. “R,” he whispered.

The guy in front of him drew in a sharp breath. “Apollo,” Grantaire replied in kind.

They stared at each other in stupefied silence as memories flashed behind their eyes. The peculiar silence was broken when the person behind Grantaire coughed pointedly. With a wince, Grantaire moved aside, looking down at the floor so as not to have to meet Enjolras' inquiring eyes.

Enjolras was the first to speak up. “I didn't—I thought—“ he shook his head, as if to dispel his thoughts. “You died with me,” he said instead. “ _For_ me,” Enjolras emphasized urgently.

Grantaire looked up for a split moment. “That I did,” he confirmed.

“I did not ask it of you,” Enjolras stated. _Unlike me, you had a choice_ , he wanted to add but refrained.

“It is precisely because you didn't ask that I did it,” Grantaire returned. “I had—still have, come to think of it—a massive crush on you. Had for years,” he paused, subconsciously biting his lower lip as he did so. “You were the sun—next to you, everyone else was a mere candle. You were burning so bright. You could say I was the moth attracted to your light.”

Enjolras shifted awkwardly, at a loss as to how to reply to an admission of that sort. “Let me make it up to you,” he repeated abruptly. “For the coffee. And—for everything else.”

Grantaire looked into Enjolras' eyes, seemingly searching for something. His expression became impenetrable. “You're welcome,” Grantaire was silent for almost a minute. He tilted his head. “So, you're a normalien, aren't you?” he asked suddenly.

Enjolras tilted his head. “Law school,” he confirmed.

“Why am I not surprised?” Grantaire snorted. “I'm an art student here.”

Enjolras furrowed his brows. “What a coincidence,” he trailed off.

“I don't believe in coincidences,” Grantaire said dryly.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Of course you don't,” he retorted.

Grantaire scoffed. “If your next words are 'you don't believe in anything', I swear to God, Enjolras, that my crush on you won't stop me from punching you in your _unfairly_ gorgeous face. For the last time, I believe in _you_.”

Enjolras huffed, too irritated to be flustered at the oblique compliment. “Your belief should not be centered on a person. That's an unstable foundation if I ever saw any.”

“Apollo, you have _no chill whatsoever_ ,” Grantaire told him flatly. He wanted to run his fingers through Enjolras’ hair and see if it was still as soft as before. He stayed where he was.

Enjolras heard a rustle behind him, followed by Combeferre's voice. "What's keeping you so—" Combeferre stopped when he spotted Grantaire beside Enjolras. A wide smile spread over his lips. "Taire."

Grantaire looked into Combeferre's face, and a faint smile bloomed onto his lips. “Combeferre. How are you?”

Combeferre shrugged. “As well as might be expected, considering…” he trailed off pointedly.

Grantaire drew in a breath of understanding. “Enjolras?” he winced sympathetically.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre nodded with a grin.

Enjolras frowned. “I'm still here, you know.”

“Really?” Combeferre smirked. “I hadn't noticed.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I'm going to order another drink. Do you want anything?” he asked Combeferre.

Combeferre shook his head. “No, but thanks for asking.”

“Progress,” Grantaire stage-whispered. Enjolras turned on his heels and stalked off towards the bar. Grantaire sighed. “ _Aaaaand_ I take that back,” he muttered. “He hasn't changed at all. _Still ignoring me._ ”

Combeferre stifled a smile. “Wait for it. I think I know what Enjolras is planning.”

“What?” Grantaire wanted to know.

“You'll find out,” was all Combeferre would say.

Grantaire groaned in protest.

“R,” Combeferre continued quietly, his eyes following Enjolras ordered his coffee again, his previous one having found its way onto Grantaire's shirt, “are you okay?” he looked at Grantaire with consternation.

Grantaire winced but nodded. “Yeah. I think I am. I mean, nothing's really changed in terms of my hopeless crush on Apollo, but it's not like that's new,” he shrugged apathetically. “I can live with that. I'm _fine_ , Ferre,” he added when Combeferre's face didn't change.

Combeferre let out a long breath. “I'll believe that when I'll see it,” he replied, then smiled widely at Enjolras, who had returned with two steaming cups of coffee.

Grantaire blinked in surprise when Enjolras pressed one of them into his hands, and couldn't quite suppress a shudder as their fingers met briefly. “I… did not expect that,” he admitted, throwing a brief look at Combeferre, who merely smiled enigmatically. “Thanks?” Grantaire said, but it came out as a question.

Enjolras smiled weakly. “You're welcome. Now,” he fixed his eyes on Combeferre, “didn't we have somewhere to be?”

“Wait,” Grantaire cried out when Enjolras made to leave. Enjolras turned back to Grantaire, pursing his lips. Grantaire shifted. “It's a good idea to exchange phone numbers. To keep in touch. Just in case.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “It is not my intention to lose touch in the first place, R,” he informed Grantaire. “But yes, you are right: it's a prudent precaution—allows us to contact each other directly. May I?” he stretched out his hand, palm upside, where his phone rested.

Grantaire allowed himself a small smile. “Sure,” he reached for his iPhone, fumbling with it for a second before offering it to Enjolras, at the same time taking Enjolras' phone.

Enjolras examined Grantaire's phone for a long moment. He then scoffed. “Of course you'd have an iPhone,” he said derisively.

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “They're compatible with the majority of—well, _everything_ , and there are far more apps for iPhones than for Android.”

“Apple is nothing but a way for the bourgeoisie to control the masses,” Enjolras grimaced.

“One of these days, I'm going to get him to stop using the word 'bourgeoisie',” Combeferre said with resignation.

“He still does that?” Grantaire snickered, ignoring Enjolras' glare. He quickly put in his contact information into Enjolras' phone before handing it back to Enjolras, who made quick work of Grantaire's iPhone before doing the same.

“Well,” Enjolras said with an air of finality. “We really do need to get going.”

“See you later,” Grantaire called after them.

As soon as Enjolras and Combeferre disappeared from sight, he unlocked his phone and found his most recently added contact. Enjolras Rousseau; _obviously_ , that'd be Enjolras' last name. Smirking, he changed the name to Apollo, sketching a quick doodle of Enjolras for his contact picture. It would have to do until he got a chance to photograph Enjolras in his natural habitat.

* * *

“So,” Combeferre broke the silence just as it bordered on oppressing, “that was Grantaire.”

Enjolras huffed. “Yes, and I'd thank you not to state the obvious,” he responded, irritation in his voice.

Combeferre ignored Enjolras' tone with an ease that bespoke years of practice. “How are you holding up?”

Enjolras twirled the coffee between his hands. “I am not the one with an unrequited infatuation. You would be better off asking R that question.”

“What makes you think I haven't?” Combeferre challenged.

Enjolras paused, considering his words. He then sighed. “No, it would be idiotic of me to assume that you haven't. In response to your question, I'm okay. Seeing him hasn't actually been as hard as I had imagined, nor has his response been what I had expected.”

“Only because you are the very definition of 'oblivious',” Combeferre muttered under his breath, quietly enough that Enjolras didn't hear him.

Enjolras frowned. “What was that? I didn't catch it.”

“I said,” Combeferre thought on his feet, “that Grantaire looked cute in his glasses. He didn't wear them before.”

Enjolras shrugged. “If you say so,” he said doubtfully.

Combeferre snorted. “You know, even asexuals and aromantics _are_ allowed to notice whether other people are aesthetically pleasing.”

Enjolras looked down at his coffee, weighing his words. “I don't. Notice it, I mean.”

“Wait,” Combeferre came to a full halt, forcing Enjolras to stop as well. Combeferre squinted at Enjolras. “You weren't kidding when you said that you can't see beauty, were you?”

Enjolras quirked an eyebrow. “Have you ever known me to joke?”

“'Knock knock',” Combeferre said in a high-pitch voice, then lowered it. “'Who's there?'” his voice rose again. “'The French Revolution.'”

“That wasn't a joke,” Enjolras maintained impassively. “It was a grave declaration of our intention to strive for the elevation of the proletariat, or die trying.”

“There you go again, making puns,” Combeferre tilted his head.

“I assure you, it’s not intentional.”

“Whatever you say,” Combeferre smirked. “You have your truth, and I have mine. Now, about the speech at the demonstration next week…”

* * *

“In Florida, you see the rich people with their villas being run by servants,” Enjolras began slowly, catching the attention of the crowd which had previously been listening to another speaker but who evidently preferred to listen to Enjolras, “being kept spotless on the off chance that the rich owners have time to drop by. And only one twentieth of them are actually inhabited. Meanwhile, a few quarters away, you have destitute people, homeless people, living day to day, not sure whether they'll have food the next day. The clash between the two is enormous, and in that lies not a shred of humanity. What does that say about us _as a society_?”

Enjolras took a deep breath. “People argue that we live in a free society. If you don't want to have insurance, you don't _have_ to. They claim that you can _choose_ to be rich, or to be poor.

“What they don't realize is that some people cannot pay their medical bills because they cannot afford it; they aren't choosing to be poor—they simply haven't the opportunity to be anything but. It's incredibly hard to rise up. Most people don't have insurance to pay for the medical care they truly need.

“Let's be honest: America is the country where only the rich are happy,” Enjolras concluded. He looked around. “You might be asking: why am I bringing this up? We don't live in America, after all. And yet, our country is that of a glorious yet terrible history of striving towards liberty to all; for some reason, our government has deluded itself into believing that America represents that freedom. I respectfully disagree. No, it does not. We need to re-evaluate our priorities, both as individuals and as a nation.”

* * *

After the speech—which Enjolras hadn't even planned, really, but the sheer close-mindedness of the bourgeoisie some of the speakers infuriated him to the point where he felt that _something_ needed to be done—when Enjolras stepped down from the makeshift podium he had created for himself, a young man approached him with brisk steps. He smiled a disarming smile, to which Enjolras raised an inquiring eyebrow, as if to ask what he wanted.

The man's facade dropped, and his smile morphed into something more genuine. He reached out a hand. “I might be wrong,” he began, “but you're Enjolras, right?”

Enjolras furrowed his eyebrows, even as he shook the outstretched hand. “Indeed, I am.”

The man's smile grew. “Courfeyrac. Nice to see you again. It's been some time, E. How about we catch up?”

This time, Enjolras' smile was genuine. “I'd love to. And I happen to know just the place.”

* * *

“Let me see if I understand it correctly,” Enjolras repeated, having finished listening to Courfeyrac’s retelling. “You are currently studying to work in law enforcement. One of your classmates just so happens to be the police spy we caught at—“

“The barricade, yes,” Courfeyrac took a sip of his coffee. “Although apparently the gentleman who was supposed to dispose of him spared his life.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath. Courfeyrac caught the word 'semantics'. “Furthermore, the brother of—Javert, was it?”

Courfeyrac frowned. “I _think_ so,” he said hesitatingly.

“Javert’s brother is Gavroche—one of your little _gamins_ from before,” Enjolras went on. “Who, in turn, was Etienne's brother—“

“ _Éponine's_ brother,” Courfeyrac interjected.

“Éponine's brother in their past lives,” Enjolras went on. “Who's in love with Marius.”

“ _Was_ in love with Marius,” Courfeyrac corrected. “At least that's what she _claims_. We haven't actually found Marius yet, so we don't have definitive proof.”

“Honestly,” Enjolras leaned back in his chair, biting into the croissant in front of him, “the most astonishing aspect of this is that Marius got not one but _two_ women to fall for him. It proves that anything's possible.”

Courfeyrac put his chin in his hand, staring at Enjolras with a distant look. “I've missed you. And so has the rest. They're all excited to meet you.”

Enjolras tilted his head. “You've texted them already?” At Combeferre's nod, he tapped his fingers against the table. “Mind sending them to me?”

“Not at all,” Courfeyrac's fingers darted across the screen, tapping at something repeatedly before looking up again. “What's your phone number?” A beat. “I should probably have begun with that,” he quipped.

Enjolras laughed, rattling off his number. A moment later, his phone buzzed. “Thanks. I have Combeferre and Grantaire's numbers, if you want them.”

Courfeyrac nodded. A moment later, he spoke up. “I'll just add you to our chat, shall I?”

“Good idea.”

A cough interrupted them. They looked up, and were met with stormy grey eyes. Courfeyrac's smile widened. “Hello, Ponine,” he greeted the brunette.

The woman, who was evidently Éponine, pursed her lips. “ _Hello_ , Courf,” she mocked. “So lovely of you to invite me here, Courf. It’s not like you promised to meet up with me at the library, oh I don’t know, _half an hour ago_ ,” she said coldly.

Courfeyrac looked at the clock. He blanched. “Sorry, Ponine,” he apologized. “Didn’t you get my text?”

“Text?” Éponine echoed. She frowned. “I’ve muted my phone. Since I was, y’know, _in the library_ ,” she said, a hint of reproach in her voice.

“I met Enjolras,” Courfeyrac explained. He gestured at the blond in front of him. “Enjolras, Éponine. Éponine, Enjolras.”

Enjolras studied Éponine. “It seems we’ve met before, but I must admit that I don’t remember you.”

“Last time we met, I was trying to avoid detection,” Éponine told him. “Women weren’t exactly allowed at the barricades. At least, not at yours.”

“Technically, it wasn’t actually my barricade—"

"It might as well have been," Courfeyrac said.

"—and in retrospect," Enjolras went on, "I realize that that particular decision had been a mistake. I had not thought women fully capable of fighting, and didn't want to sacrifice the lives of innocents.”

“It had been just as much our fight as yours,” Éponine said in a voice that brokered no argument.

“Hindsight is perfect,” Enjolras grimaced. “But it is a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Éponine...” he trailed off, looking pointedly at Courfeyrac, as if waiting for his friend to finish the introduction.

Éponine shook his hand, her grip surprisingly firm considering her slender statue. “Éponine Etienne, and if you call me mademoiselle again, I will break your fingers. Just Éponine will suffice.”

“Noted,” Enjolras said. He glanced at Courfeyrac. “Apropos, I _was_ right about Etienne,” he said triumphantly.

“From a certain point of view,” Courfeyrac acknowledged.

“As lovely as it is to talk to you,” Éponine interjected, “I need to remind you that Gavroche is waiting for us,” she said impatiently. Courfeyrac furrowed his brows in bewilderment. Éponine sighed in exasperation. “Gavroche wanted to see that architectural monstrosity more commonly known as the Louis Vuitton Foundation building. We promised to go with him. This was the reason we were supposed to meet in the library _in the first place_.”

Courfeyrac exhaled. He stood up. “You’re right,” he conceded. An idea occurred to him, and he glanced at Enjolras. “Enjolras, do you want to join us?”

Enjolras searched his pockets for something, finally coming up with chewing gum. He offered the package to Courfeyrac, who shook his head, and Éponine, who gleefully took a piece. Enjolras also reached for one before putting it back into his pocket. “Although I’d love a chance to talk to you for longer,” he said, “I’ve already promised Grantaire that I’d see his art exhibit.”

Courfeyrac tilted his head. “Are you two dating?” he asked bluntly.

Enjolras almost swallowed the piece of gum. Choking, he glared at Courfeyrac. “No, we aren’t. Our relationship is purely platonic,” he told Courfeyrac firmly.

Éponine nibbled on her lower lip. “It just _seems_ like—“

“I’m asexual and aromantic,” Enjolras cut her off brusquely.

“In other words, you haven’t changed one iota,” Courfeyrac summed it up.

Enjolras shrugged. “Back then, there weren’t words for these kinds of things.”

“I’m lesbian,” Éponine spoke up. “Since we’re sharing and all.”

Courfeyrac snorted. “I’m pansexual. Are we done yet? It’s making Enjolras uncomfortable.”

“It’s _not—_ “ Enjolras began protesting. A chime from his phone got his attention. “It does seem that we’re going to need to reschedule a reunion with everyone."

* * *

Javert avoided his twin and his friends as much as he could—which, considerng that he had been, in his previous life, a trained spy, was quite a lot. What other choice did he have? He didn’t like socializing and the inevitable small talk and pleasantries that came with it, preferring conversations with actual content in them, but even if he did want to talk to them, his past has burned that bridge long ago—around the time Gavroche (his brother! unbelievable!) had denounced him as the police spy Inspector Javert. He hadn’t regretted spying on the rebels, only getting caught.

Still, to have been killed by them would have been a death in the line of duty—the only death Javert had accepted, if not strived towards—he wasn’t _suicidal_.

Except he was, apparently. Or had been, at any rate. All because of Jean Valjean. 24601. It was easier to think of him as a string of numbers—numbers could never evoke feelings, nor could they dissuade the law from taking the right action. And yet.

Jean Valjean had, in sparing Javert, robbed him of an honourable death. The irony, Javert reflected, was that, in sparing him, he had nonetheless killed some part of Javert—the part that believed in the infallibility of the law had been perpetually lost after that night. Even had Javert not succeeded in ending his life, Jean Valjean had snapped the thread keeping Javert firmly attached to the police by shaking the very foundations of Javert’s beliefs. He would not have been able to remain in the police force, had he survived. One way or another, Javert’s life would have ended, and Javert could not stand the thought of an existence where he wasn’t doing his uttermost to preserve the peace by keeping a separate line between the respectable society and the beings worse than the lowest scum; criminals; convicts; those who have abandoned human laws in favour of their own selfishness, who were willing to gamble with other people’s lives to further their own gain.

Even now, even after all this time, Javert was torn between the law and his own morals. Even though he had a conscience since he was a small child, and had learned to navigate it before regaining his memories, his old values clashed horribly with those morals. Jacquet believed that there were extenuating circumstances; the Javert of old would have laughed as such an absurdity.

In short, Javert was still struggling with his inner conflict, even if he now realized that ending his life wasn’t a solution so much as a postponement of the problem.

Besides, if his brother and his revolutionary friends were here, it was only a matter of time until that foolish Baron de Pontmercy found his way here, and where he went, Jean Valjean inevitably followed. And boy, did Javert have matters to discuss with Jean Valjean.

* * *

_Chat: reincarnates_

_Courfeyrac_ : so I found enjolras&ferre&taire

 _Courfeyrac_ : bc I’m awesome

 _Enjolras_ : Of course you’d be the kind of person not to use capital letters.

 _Éponine_ : oh get off your high horse e

 _Combeferre_ : he’s like that

 _Enjolras_ : Not you as well.

 _Grantaire_ : sorry to break it to you apollo

 _Grantaire_ : but you’re literally the only person who still uses punctuation

 _Enjolras_ changed the chat name to _Les Amis de l’ABC._

 _Grantaire_ changed _Enjolras_ ’s name to _Apollo_.

 _Apollo_ : Grantaire.

 _Grantaire_ : yes, mon âme?

 _Apollo_ : Stop it. My name isn’t Apollo.

 _Grantaire_ : your cheekbones say otherwise

 _Gavroche_ : you two are sickeningly adorable

 _Combeferre_ : except they aren’t dating

 _Gavroche_ : yeah right

 _Gavroche_ : seriously tho really??

 _Combeferre_ : yeah

 _Grantaire_ : apollo is Too Majestic to concern himself with such petty things as romance

 _Grantaire_ : that’s for us Mortals

 _Apollo_ : Grantaire, I thought I had convinced you that I am far from infallible.

 _Grantaire_ : I didn’t say you were

 _Grantaire_ : but like in the greek myths the gods screwed up lots of times

 _Grantaire_ : case in point: zeus

 _Grantaire_ : athena

 _Grantaire_ : apollo

 _Combeferre_ : he has you there, Enjolras

 _Combeferre_ : apollo was a great and charming being capable of being terrible

 _Combeferre_ : he once murdered an entire family because they had more kids than apollo’s mother

 _Enjolras_ : I sincerely hope that you aren’t insinuating that I resort to child murder to get my point across. I’m not quite that cruel.

 _Gavroche_ : …

 _Gavroche_ : … …

 _Gavroche_ : … … …

 _Gavroche_ : funny that you mention it

 _Enjolras_ : We told you to get out. Repeatedly. From Combeferre’s research, it even appears that Marius tried to banish you by involving you in his secret letter-carrying.

 _Gavroche_ : … I hate it when I’m not right

 _Gavroche_ : but also I can’t resent you for it

 _Grantaire_ : that feeling right there? yeah, isn’t it fun

 _Éponine_ : grantaire I see you across the café

 _Éponine_ : that’s you right

 _Éponine_ has attached a picture.

 _Grantaire_ : yup that’s lil’ ol’ me

 _Courfeyrac_ : okay woah you’re actually hot

 _Grantaire_ : … … not sure whether to feel insulted bc rUDE

 _Grantaire_ : but also thanks

 _Éponine_ : you look sweet in glasses

 _Éponine_ : like a chocolate chip cookie

 _Éponine_ : bouge, I’m coming over

 _Gavroche_ : … I have glasses too thanks for asking

 _Gavroche_ : (so does jav btw plus he can see in the dark hOW WICKED IS THAT)

 _Enjolras_ : I doubt that the fact that the man who previously wanted us all dead can see in the dark constitutes as good news.

 _Gavroche_ : I’m not defending his actions (like that’s going to happen)

 _Gavroche_ : but I do know that there are certain parts of his life that he regrets

 _Gavroche_ : he’s like the ultimate Mysterious Brooder

 _Courfeyrac_ : a bit like jehan then

 _Gavroche_ : all I’m saying is cut him some slack

 _Courfeyrac_ : how is that not defending his actions

 _Enjolras_ : Ten minutes to M. Poirot’s class.

 _Éponine_ : omw

 _Éponine_ : thx

 _Éponine_ : be right there

 _Combeferre_ : and that’s my cue

 _Combeferre_ : have a lovely lecture, I’m off to learn about the inner workings of a brain ^^

* * *

Enjolras eventually succeeded in tracking Javert down, although it was clear that the other man didn't want to be found. He cornered him one day on his way out of the lecture hall, forcing Javert to either acquiesce to his presence or make a scene. Enjolras counted on Javert's latent spy instincts remembering that making an uncalled-for spectacle was counterproductive.

Enjolras was right. Javert’s eyes, having spotted Enjolras, flitted around the corridor, trying to find an escape route, then, coming up empty, seemed to look back at Enjolras with resignation. He began walking away, and Enjolras quickened his steps, a moment later falling into step beside Javert.

Javert remained quiet, evidently waiting for Enjolras to speak.

"Javert," Enjolras began, making a conscious effort to keep his voice even so as not to cause a commotion.

"Enjolras," Javert returned in kind.

"You betrayed us," Enjolras said bluntly, deciding to go at one to the crux of the matter.

"Technically," Javert pointed out, "I was never on you side to begin with."

"The second you put a foot inside the barricade, you joined our side," Enjolras reasoned. "And then you betrayed us."

They were quiet for several moments.

"Do you regret it?" Enjolras said at length.

"I don't know," Javert admitted, as if sharing some great secret.

" _You don't know_?" Enjolras echoed incredulously. "How can you _not know_?"

“I _thought_ that I knew. I thought that the law was absolute and that I did the right thing by following it to the letter, never questioning it. Now..." Javert hesitated. "I don't know."

"What changed your mind?" Enjolras asked despite himself. Technically, Javert's problems weren't his, and he despised people who insisted on poking their noses into other people's business, but he couldn't help but be curious as to what made this literal personification of the law waver in his convictions; what caused this fearsome man to falter.

There was a bittersweet smile on Javert's lips. "Jean Valjean," he murmured, as if the name alone sufficed as an explanation.

Enjolras frowned. "Who?"

"The old man who joined your little ragtag team of revolutionaries at the last minute."

Enjolras made a sound of understanding. "M. Mattress."

"Over the years, his aliases were numerous," Javert reminisced. "Jean Valjean. 24601. M. Madeleine—" he paused, seemingly deep in thought. "9340. M. Fauchelevent."

"He was a _convict_?" Enjolras asked, stupefacted, once Javert had finished speaking.

Javert sighed. "Yes, and therein lies the problem: he was a convict, a parole breaker, and a second offender. He was also a merciful and generous man. I cannot reconcile the two—convicts cannot suddenly change into good men overnight. They _cannot change_ ," he repeated, his voice filled with an emotion Enjolras was unable to discern. Javert huffed. "And I don't even know why I'm telling this to you of all people."

Enjolras pursed his lips. "Probably because you haven't spoken to anyone else about this, from what Gavroche has been telling us, and even _I_ know that keeping things bottled up is like walking on a line. One small misstep,” Enjolras paused, lowering his voice, “and you fall into the abyss of despair.”

He was silent for a moment; Javert stared at Enjolras, as if prompting him to continue. Enjolras shook his head, dispelling his thoughts. “Still, the fact remains that you betrayed us. I do not forgive betrayal.”

“I haven’t asked your forgiveness,” Javert retorted sharply.

“And, for the moment, you shall not have it. Still, we do share a few acquaintances, and, unless I am very wrong, others will join us soon. It is therefore my belief that, if only for their sake, we should come to a peaceful agreement; a ceasefire, if you will.”

“We could have simply continued to avoid each other,” Javert pointed out.

“I thought that you preferred the straightforward solution to sneaking around in the shadows like a criminal,” Enjolras replied shrewdly.

Javert sighed. “I don’t have the time to argue. I have a class in seven minutes.”

“I won’t let this go,” Enjolras warned.

Javert scoffed. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“You have,” Enjolras held out a hand. “Truce for now?”

Javert stared at it for a moment as though it was a snake poised to strike, then shook it. “Truce for now.”

Enjolras walked beside Javert in silence for several minutes. When he spoke, it was on a subject Javert hadn’t anticipated.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand about you,” Enjolras admitted.

Javert pointedly didn’t look at Enjolras. “And that is…?”

“When Gavroche denounced you at the barricade, you didn’t offer any resistance. You did not try to lie, nor did you try to convince us that you were anyone else. Why did you give in so easily, when you could have easily assuaged our suspicions about you?”

Javert’s posture was stiff. “I did not see any point in lying, which is, at any rate, a dishonourable practice, and one which I avoid at all costs.”

Enjolras’ brain parcelled the truth from behind Javert’s roundabout description. “For a spy,” he said at last, “you are an _extraordinarily_ bad liar. How could you have worked with what you did, with your attitudes?”

“When working with the law, one does not need to lie,” Javert replied coldly. “One has the Right on one’s side.”

“The right brought about by human authority, maybe,” Enjolras retorted passionately, “but not the divine right of progress and of evolution; the right of equality and of divine justice; the right that will bring about the revolution of the True, and will light up the human race; those are rights that cannot be reached by following human law.”

Javert was quiet for a moment. “I am beginning to see it,” he sighed.

* * *

"You're obsessed with this Valjean," Gavroche observed, twirling a pen between his fingers absentmindedly.

"No, I'm not," Javert protested.

"Your phone password is literally 24601."

“How do you—“ Javert stopped, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

Gavroche smirked.

They were holed up in their dorm room. Javert was trying to finish up his homework for his ethics class—it still astounded him that there were special classes that dealt with the _moral_ aspect of policework, rather than simply the jurisdictional part, and how to act if the two ever clashed—while his brother was doing everything _but_. Into that category fell, apparently, disturbing Javert whenever it looked like he was getting work done.

Knowing that he wouldn’t get any work done while Gavroche was in this mood, Javert pushed his laptop away from him, straightening his askew glasses in the same movement. “I’m not obsessed with Jean Valjean,” he said firmly.

Gavroche rolled his eyes. “Next thing, you’ll tell me that R isn’t in love with Enjolras,” he said skeptically.

Javert highlighted a passage in his essay, making a note to rephrase it later. “I don’t know what the relationships between your friends are, but I am certain of my own state of mind.”

Not true, upon consideration. Normally, he’d correct himself, but that would only encourage Gavroche. It was odd, he reflected, that he could open himself up to Enjolras, a virtual stranger, but whenever Gavroche wanted to talk, he shut himself up tighter than a clam. Conceivably, it was _because_ Enjolras was a virtual stranger that Javert felt that he had an easier time talking to him. He had much less to lose with Enjolras, while Gavroche was not only _Gavroche the revolutionary gamin_ but also _his brother Gavroche_.

Gavroche snorted. “Say that again, and do make an effort to sound more convincing this time.”

“I have a lot of work to do,” Javert warned Gavroche. “I’d thank you not to interrupt me.”

With a dramatic sigh, Gavroche got off his bed. Grabbing the keys, he opened the door. “Fine, be that way,” he groused. “At least _Ponine_ will be happy to see me.”

When Javert didn’t react, Gavroche left, leaving Javert in a silence almost oppressive, though Javert could not, for the life of him, figure out why.

* * *

“Combeferre,” Enjolras held up a thick book, a look of disgust on his face. “What is this _monstrosity_ , and what is it doing on my desk?”

Combeferre rolled his eyes. “ _Figures_ you’d be one of the critics of _Les Mis_.”

“ _Les Mis_?” Enjolras echoed.

“Hugo’s _Les Misérables_ is a pseudo-history book, but with a lot of exaggerations,” Combeferre told him, barely catching his breath between the sentences. “Historians take great pleasures in villifying it and look down on the people who read it. Despite that, it’s still very popular among the common people because a) romance, b) a very casual way of re-telling history, and c) Enjolras. Philosophy and civics teachers also like it, because of the essays Hugo insisted on adding every second chapter.”

“That still doesn’t answer what it’s doing on my desk.”

“I borrowed it for you from the library. I think you’d benefit greatly from reading about the events from an outsider’s point of view.”

“I don’t need to,” Enjolras retorted sharply. “I’ve been there. And how is it that you can borrow books on my card?”

“The librarians trust me,” Combeferre remarked cheerfully.

“I see,” Enjolras said cryptically. He picked up the book and leafed through it aimlessly, skimming through chosen passages. He gave a hum of approval at one passage, causing Combeferre to look up. Enjolras didn’t seem to notice. “He has excellent opinions, this one,” he praised.

“You mean he has similar opinions to yours,” Combeferre said astutely. “I’m sure your endorsement means a lot to Hugo.”

At this, Enjolras frowned. “Are you making fun of me?” he demanded.

“Not at all,” Combeferre insisted. “It’s my genuine belief that Hugo would be very pleased to have passed your inspection. He practically deitified you in that book—which you _would have known if you’d taken the time to read it_ ,” he added the admonishment.

Enjolras rolled his eyes theatrically. “Romantic novels are of little interest to me,” he intoned impassively.

“I think you’ll find that the romance is a very small part of it, and Marius’ antics are hilariously awkward.”

“I have no desire to read about Marius’ unsuccessful courting attempts,” Enjolras returned.

“About one fourth of the book is political essays,” Combeferre cajoled. “And a fair bit is about Marius’ father-in-law.”

Enjolras tilted his head. “Valjean?”

Combeferre looked up in surprise. “Yes. How did you know his name? I thought you—“

“Javert told me,” Enjolras said curtly.

“Since when are you on speaking terms with Javert?” Combeferre wanted to know.

“I'm not,” Enjolras shot back. “We… came to an agreement, that is all.”

Combeferre looked like he wanted to ask further questions, but held himself back. “You might want to know more about Jean Valjean, in the absence of the man himself,” he proposed.

Enjolras stared at Combeferre for a long moment. “Maybe,” he said eventually, putting the book—a _brick_ , really, was what it was, judging by its sheer _size_ —on his nightstand.

* * *

Finding Bossuet, Musichetta, and Joly turned out to be easier than expected, mostly because the three had already been living together in strange semblance of marietal bliss. Joly was a classmate of Combeferre’s, although he had been sick for the better part of the first week, and refused to leave his dorm the second week for fear of catching another cold.

“We did try to convince him that he was in no danger of doing that,” Musichetta would later explain, “but he wouldn’t listen.”

Bossuet was a law student, which was how Enjolras discovered him. It was a sheer coincidence—the professor paired them up for an assignment, Éponine’s partner being a short and lanky guy who made it clear from the beginning that he found Éponine very intriguing and couldn’t they maybe grab a dinner sometime and get to know each other?

(To this, Éponine had stormed off furiously.)

Enjolras, naturally, had better luck than Éponine. His partner was Bossuet Moulin, a guy with the same amount of luck Éponine had—the difference being, hers applied only in her love life, while Bossuet’s applied everywhere. At that point, even Enjolras noticed that there was something familiar about his new partner. He proceeded to essentially commandeer the three to a meeting at the coffee shop.

Musichetta, on the other—third?—hand, majored in engineering.

“Engineering?” Courfeyrac echoed disbelievingly when she told them. He waved at her. “Bu–—“ he said helplessly, “but you’re smart. _Really_ smart.”

“Your point being…?” Musichetta raised an eyebrow. “There’s nothing wrong with engineering.”

“I’m not saying there is,” Courfeyrac backtracked, to Musichetta’s amusement.

“You were implying that,” she countered.

“I—actually have no defense,” Courfeyrac said amiably. He extended his hand. “Friends?”

Musichetta’s smile was sharp as she shook it. “Friends.”

Joly looked around, taking in the ragtag group that was the remains of Les Amis de l’ABC. He addressed Enjolras: “Is that all of us?”

“For now,” Enjolras replied. “I am confident that we will find our missing citizens.”

“ _Friends_ , Enjolras,” Grantaire spoke idly. “It’s okay to call them friends. I think a common death experience would qualify for becoming friends with someone. At the very least,” he winked at Enjolras, who ignored Grantaire in favour of quizzing Bossuet on their lives up until now.

* * *

Enjolras abruptly threw a book across the room. It bounced off on a wall, causing Combeferre to look up in bewilderment. “What did that book ever do to you?” he asked plaintively. “It’s a perfectly good book; whatever essay you’ve just read doesn’t merit the Twilight Treatment.”

“It wasn’t an essay,” Enjolras seethed.

Combeferre furrowed his brows. “What was it, then, that so horrible that you had to literally chuck it across our dorm?”

In response, Enjolras got up from his bed, crossed the room, and picked up the book he had just thrown, leaving through it until he found what he was looking for. He cleared his throat. “ _In what manner had Enjolras subjugated him?_ ” Enjolras read out loud.” _“By his ideas? No. By his character. A phenomenon which is often observable. A sceptic who adheres to a believer is as simple as the law of complementary colors. That which we lack attracts us. The toad always has his eyes fixed on heaven. Why? In order to watch the bird in its flight. Grantaire, in whom writhed doubt, loved to watch faith soar in Enjolras. He had need of Enjolras. That chaste, healthy, firm, upright, hard, candid nature charmed him, without his being clearly aware of it, and without the idea of explaining it to himself having occurred to him. He admired his opposite by instinct. His soft, yielding, dislocated, sickly, shapeless ideas attached themselves to Enjolras as to a spinal column. His moral backbone leaned on that firmness. Grantaire in the presence of Enjolras became some one once more._

_“There are men who seem to be born to be the reverse, the obverse, the wrong side. They only exist on condition that they are backed up with another man; their name is a sequel, and is only written preceded by the conjunction and; and their existence is not their own; it is the other side of an existence which is not theirs. Grantaire was one of these men. He was the obverse of Enjolras.”_

Enjolras shut the book with a thud. “Disregarding the fact that Hugo wastes an inappropriate amount of time on my physical appearance—which is an offense in and of itself—this reduces Grantaire to a form of mindless drunkard, which we both know is not the case. He is far more than that.

Combeferre gazed at the blond thoughtfully. “If I may ask,” he began carefully, “what made you change your mind about Grantaire? After all, your previous opinion of him wasn’t, shall we say, very flattering. In fact, Hugo’s next words are ‘Enjolras, the believer, disdained this sceptic; and, a sober man himself, scorned this drunkard.’”

Enjolras glanced back down at the passage he had just read. “I have come to realize,” he spoke slowly, his words oddly hesitant, “that I may have been in error regarding certain matters, Grantaire’s character being among them.”

Enjolras tensed up when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up, and was met with Combeferre’s eyes, which brimming with compassion.

“It is alright to be mistaken about different matters,” Combeferre told him kindly. “I know that you hold yourself to standards that, frankly, no being could ever hope to live up to; still, you have to realize that _you_ are human as well, and humans are prone to making mistakes every now and again—even one striving towards such perfection as you.”

Enjolras didn’t acknowledge his words, but his body relaxed, allowing the touch on his shoulder.

“Be that as it may,” Combeferre continued, “you still haven’t answered my question.”

”He died for me,” Enjolras said quietly. ”That was what changed my mind. I realized I had been wrong about him all this time.”

”Well,” Combeferre contemplated, ”you _were_ right about him more than few times; you have to admit that. Still, you had been severely undervaluing Grantaire. After all, Hugo himself points out that Grantaire did believe in something: you. An affection is a conviction.”

Enjolras stared at the book pensively. “I’m starting to see that,” he said pensively.

* * *

“We need equality,” Enjolras spoke emphatically, not caring about the fact that his audience consisted of one not-entirely-attentive painter, whose attention was focused on the Pinterest board he was in the process of creating. “ _True_ equality; equality for all, not simply for the chosen few. No animal is ‘more equal’ than any other animal. At the bottom, we are all born, we all live, and we all die at some point. All of our lives matter as much—or as little. I cannot start to consider myself more worthy of a good life than any other person; our goal should be to guarantee everyone the same rights and the same opportunities. Whether they take advantage of them is up to them, but they need a _chance_.”

Grantaire snorted. Enjolras narrowed his eyes at Grantaire. “Do you honestly have a problem with equality for all?” he said incredulously, unable to comprehend that an opinion other than his was possible.

“Here’s the thing about equality: everyone’s equal when they’re dead,” Grantaire drawled lackadaisacally.

“You cannot possibly believe that,” The outrage in Enjolras’ voice was almost tangible. “Grantaire, don’t you understand that you need to _stand up_ for something! If you stand for nothing, what will you fall for?”

“You,” Grantaire said flippantly, although his stomach churned with the veracity of his words. “I believe in you. I fell for you, and I would fall a thousand times over.”

Enjolras momentarily backtracked, uncomfortable with Grantaire’s frankness, but not a minute passed before he picked up again, going on about the necessity of equality for all.

Grantaire stood up, intending to make another pot of coffee, because if he knew anything about Enjolras (he did—there was a list), Enjolras wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon now that he had someone to sharpen his arguments against.

Enjolras followed him to the kitchen, continuing to bombard him with explanations upon explanations of why he was in the right and Grantaire should change his mind.

Grantaire tuned out Enjolras’ words, simply focusing on the sound of his voice. He poured a new package of coffee beans to Enjolras’ coffee machine, then pressed the button and let the coffee machine do its work. “All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t hold out—“ he began, turning around to reach for two mugs, but slipped and lost his balance. He winced, mentally preparing himself for the inevitable impact with the hard floor, already imagining the bruises he would be sporting tomorrow.

The impact never came.

Between one moment and another, he found himself in Enjolras’ arms. The blond was stronger than his slender appearance made him seem. He instictively grabbed a hold of Grantaire’s wrist with one hand and his waist with another, so that Enjolras’ arms were wrapped around Grantaire in a bizarre rendition of one of Grantaire’s fantasies and really, now was the _worst imaginable time_ for those kinds of thoughts. His scarf felt too tight against his body, choking him; he was drowning.

At last, Enjolras also seemed to notice the awkwardness of their situation—their bodies touching, which was more than they had ever done, and Grantaire’s reacting in ways it _most definitely should not_. Enjolras let of of Grantaire as though burned. The sudden loss of body contact left Grantaire feeling strangely bereft, despite having been held by the blond for no more than a few seconds.

There was silence in the small space between them.

“I apologize,” Enjolras said curtly, looking away. He could barely stand to look at him, Grantaire realized.

“For what?” Grantaire managed a laugh. “For saving me from falling? My private knight in shining armour,” he purred in spite of himself. “Or red shirt. Whichever.”

“I…“ Enjolras began haltingly, as if trying to reach out to Grantaire but being at a loss how, then stopped, taking the time to think his words though meticulously. His face was scrunched up in an adorable frown; Grantaire had the sudden urge to kiss it away. Enjolras sighed. “I cannot and do not reciprocate your feelings, and for that, I’m sorry. I don’t regret being who I am, but I believe that you deserve someone who is capable of reciprocating your feelings.”

Grantaire smiled faintly, the smile a little hollow. “But that’s just the thing, Apollo—I don’t want anyone else; I want _you_. I’ll be satisfied with whatever you’re willing to share with me.”

Enjolras studied Grantaire, his eyes as blue and as crispy as the skye above. “That is very little. I do hope you realize that,” he said at length.

“I’ll take it,” Grantaire vowed immediately.

“You need more than what I am willing to give you. Than what I am _capable_ of giving you. It is unfair to you on every level.”

Grantaire stared pointedly at the blond. “Enjolras,” he said, “just the fact that you are my friend is more than what I had been expecting from you,” he stopped, looked down, then glanced up at Enjolras again. “Permets-tu?” he asked softly.

Enjolras’ smile spoke volumes; the tentative embrace even more.

* * *

 

> **_Understanding Asexuality In Modern Terms_ **
> 
> _“In modern society, individuals face certain expectations concerning experiencing sexual attraction, desiring sexual intercourse, and living with a partner. Together with the fact that very few people are familiar with the term ‘asexuality’, this creates misunderstandings_ _for asexuality. It also results in individuals who do not conform to the expectations concerning sexuality, as imposed by age and gender, questioning themselves. At the same time, amatonormativity espousing the norms of sexual and romantic exclusiveness to one partner, the society as a whole is led to believing, falsely, that it is the only acceptable type of relationship. That is not so._
> 
> _We live in a world where everyone is expected to accept the myth that if one is not part of an exclusive and romantic relationship, one is to be pitied; failing that, that it is only a phase, which will pass. This, too, is false. (…).”_

* * *

_Chat: Les Amis de l’ABC_

_Musichetta_ : _@Apollo @Grantaire_ so are you dating or what

 _Apollo_ : No.

 _Grantaire_ : not really?

 _Apollo_ : Not in the conventional sense.

 _Éponine_ : so you ARE dating

 _Apollo_ : Not romantically. I still identify as aromantic. That hasn’t changed.

 _Éponine_ : … you’re really close friends?? I’m just trying to understand

 _Apollo_ : That doesn’t describe the full scope of it either. I do feel different about R than about the rest of you, but it isn’t romantic or sexual.

 _Bossuet_ : #what is our relationship #featuring #enjolras and grantaire

 _Bossuet_ : no seriously we want to know

 _Apollo_ : While I appreciate the tacit support you’re showing us, I am not quite comfortable sharing the details quite yet.

 _Grantaire_ : (hint: there aren’t any)

 _Apollo_ : R.

 _Grantaire_ : sorry :’(((

 _Apollo_ : Stop with the parentheses. It looks like that smiley has a triple chin.

 _Éponine_ changed _Grantaire_ ’s name to _R_.

 _R_ : . . . ponine

 _Éponine_ : listen to your SO your R

 _Éponine_ : *you’re

 _R_ : my emotions are one big jumbled mess rn

 _Courfeyrac_ : hey, could be worse

 _R_ : how

 _Courfeyrac_ : at least you’re not marius

 _R_ : somehow that’s not exactly comforting

* * *

Grantaire had taken to keeping a list of the ten most important things about Enjolras. ( _No, Courf_ , it wasn't obsessive, _shut up_.)

1\. Enjolras was even more passionate than ever about the slightest social injustice—if that was even _possible_.

2\. Enjolras was rich but donated almost all of his money to charity.

3\. Enjolras hated it when Grantaire called him Apollo since he believed that it was unwarranted deitification. (Naturally, this only served in egging Grantaire on.)

4\. Enjolras was agender because ‘gender is a social construct enforced by the bourgeoisie (“Middle-class, Enjolras.” “They behave like the bourgeoisie. The bourgeoisie by any other name behaves no differently.” “That’s it. You’ve lost your Shakespeare privileges.”) to make life easier for them and to root out anyone different by enforcing certain behaviours’.

5\. Enjolras had an adorable blush which went from his cheeks to his ears, and which had the effect of making Grantaire’s resolve melt into a puddle.

6\. Enjolras ran the foremost political blog in France. Enjolras was making an actual difference.

7\. Enjolras looked good in any kinds of clothes. (Grantaire didn’t like the red, it reminding him too much of the tragic end of Enjolras’ failed revolution.)

8\. Enjolras looked a little _too_ good in white. Also, when he braided his hair. (On most other days, too, come to think of that, which is _utterly unfair_.)

9\. Enjolras was, in short, a perfect being who had no time concerning himself with people like—well, most of the human race, really, but especially Grantaire, and yet, for reasons Grantaire didn’t understand, was his friend. Which brought him to number ten:

10\. _Enjolras cared about him._

(Number ten was encircled several times with three different pens.)

* * *

 _From: Combeferre_  
can you take spock tonight? I’ve got a thing with courf

 _To: Combeferre_  
Of course.  
Dare I ask what ‘thing’?

 _From: Combeferre_  
not your kind of thing

 _To: Combeferre_  
Is that code for anything?  
Wait, is that code for sex?

 _From: Combeferre_  
I can neither confirm nor deny, mon ami  
I plan on staying the night, if you feel like inviting r  
have fun, kids  
don’t do anything courf wouldn’t  
(also don’t do most things he would)

* * *

Feuilly, Bahorel, and Jehan had been harder to find. They were not in any of the classes where the rest of Les Amis met—neither in law, nor in medicine.

At least, that was what Bossuet had thought. He had been supremely surprised when he walked into the lecture hall one day and saw Bahorel in one of the seats, tapping out a rhythm only he could hear with his pen. He put his things down next to Bahorel without hesitation. Bahorel didn’t look up.

“I haven’t see you here,” Bossuet remarked, figuring that it was as good a conversation starter as any.

Bahorel shrugged. “Been forced here by parentals. Don’t really care about it, though, truth be told.”

Bossuet smiled despite himself. So that hasn’t changed. “I used to have a friend who had a similar problem,” he told Bahorel.

The tapping stopped. “Really?” Bahorel made an effort to disguise the curiosity in his voice behind a veil of indifference. “What happened to them?”

“He died,” Bossuet said bluntly.

At that, Bahorel did finally look up. His eyes widened as he took in Bossuet. “Hello,” Bossuet said. “So nice of you to finally join us.”

* * *

Just as with the other three trios (if one discounted Javert, which Combeferre did), once one was found, so were the others.

Feuilly, it was discovered, was studying engineering, yet hadn’t been recognized by Musichetta, a fact for which Courfeyrac teased Musichetta for weeks afterwards. He only stopped once Musichetta, tired of his constant nagging, snapped that she hadn’t met any of them except for Bossuet and Joly in her past life, so how did Courfeyrac expect her to recognize a stranger?!

Jehan was an arts student, a fact which managed to coax Grantaire out of his normal skeptic state into something almost resembling cheer since “he finally had an ally among all those doctors and lawyers—and engineers,” Grantaire added at Musichetta’s pointed glare.

“You have no idea how good it is to see you,” Jehan smiled, hugging everyone in turn. “It just hasn’t been the same without you.”

“Yes,” Grantaire drawled, “what would we do without your romantic heart?”

“Crash and burn,” Jehan replied without missing a beat, causing Grantaire to snort and Enjolras to raise a questioning eyebrow. Grantaire waved away his concerns.

“So,” Feuilly looked around as Bahorel came up behind him and wrapped his arms around the shorter man, “it looks like we’re only missing Marius,” Feuilly summed up.

Courfeyrac shook his head. “We also haven’t found his _darling_ _Cosette_ ,” he smirked. “And I, for one, would literally pay to meet the woman who turned the head of Marius the Melancholy Brooder.”

“We haven’t found Javert’s boyfriend either,” Gavroche interjected.

“M. Mattress,” Enjolras added helpfully.

Bahorel rolled his eyes. “Since when do we care about a spy?” he scoffed. “He would have killed us, had he had a chance.”

“Since he’s also _my brother_ ,” Gavroche retorted pointedly. “Drop the ‘you’re either with us or against us’ nonsense. I would have expected it from Enjolras, but not from _you_ , Rel.”

There was an uncomfortable silence as everyone struggled for words.

“So,” Feuilly spoke eventually, “what else did we miss?”

Courfeyrac grinned. “Enjolras and R are Definitely Not Dating,” he said, the capital letters all but audible. “And France is officially 18% racist, which Enjolras has Opinions about.”

Combeferre groaned. “You couldn’t have just…?” he trailed off suggestively, glaring at Courfeyrac.

“I don’t appreciate your insouciance in this matter,” Enjolras replied indignantly. “You have to see that it’s simply _outrageous_ that almost eighteen percent of the French population is racist,” Enjolras managed from between his teeth. “This is not what we fought for—what we _died_ for! equality! education! an end to ignorance! an opportunity for everyone to get a chance to express their views! Not a _deliberate_ silencing of millions of voices, and by our _elected leaders_ , no less.”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre said carefully, “I don’t know how to break it to you, but Le Pen wasn’t elected.”

“You are missing the point!” Enjolras hissed. “The point is that almost eighteen percent of voters voted for Le Front national. _Eighteen percent_. That’s over five and a half million voters, Ferre. And they voted for what? The isolation and deportation of their fellow human beings; the degradation of the human race; the halt of Liberty—“

“I can almost hear the capital letter,” Grantaire taunted.

“—the halt of Liberty,” Enjolras went on as though Grantaire had not spoken, “and the victory of the Easy over the Just!”

Making eye contact with Courfeyrac, Combeferre gestured silently at Enjolras, as if to say, “See what you’ve done?” To this, Courfeyrac rolled his eyes and turned deliberately to Bahorel.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre was saying behind Courfeyrac’s back, “while I do agree with you that it’s an atrocity, I don’t believe that the response ought to be to get riled up. Think, this is what they want to accomplish! Don’t give them the satisfaction. People will see the error of their ways without a screaming rant. It is inevitable, remember?”

To this, Enjolras launched into another tirade, albeit calmer.

“So,” Bahorel spoke, a gleam in his eye, “did anything else happen?”

Courfeyrac frowned. “Not really?” he said, phrasing it as a question rather than a statement. A split second later, his eyes lit up with realization. “Actually, yes. Combeferre’s agreed to go out with me.”

Feuilly snorted. “ _Finally_ , is what I’m saying.”

Jehan cooed. “How sweet! You complement each other. For what it’s worth, I think you’ll work out.”

Courfeyrac beamed. “Thanks, guys. It means a lot. Truly.”

“And, while we’re on the subject of underinvestigated problems,” Enjolras was still speaking, having switched tracks, “the alarmingly rising temperatures and sea levels need more attention. If we don’t drastically change our behaviour, the Gendarmerie Maritime will soon be patrolling the coast of Paris,” he went on insistently.

“On the upside,” Grantaire shrugged, “tourism will see a substantial increase.”

Enjolras glowered. “This isn’t the time for jokes,” he snapped.

Grantaire snorted. “When is it ever?”

Feuilly leaned back into Bahorel’s arms. “Any second,” he whispered, “Enjolras will storm out.”

“I’m not taking that bet,” Bahorel replied. “Counteroffer: before Enjolras storms off, he calls Grantaire a stale baguette.”

Feuilly considered this. “Deal,” he decided. “Ten francs.”

Meanwhile, Grantaire had adapted a vacant look Combeferre recognized all too well—it was the same look any of them assumed whenever Enjolras’ rants got a little too intense, and Grantaire wasn’t exempted from this.

Enjolras eventually noticed Grantaire’s lack of attention. “Are you even listening to me?” he demanded.

Grantaire snapped back. “Yeah, sure,” he promised unconvincingly.

Enjolras scowled. “Repeat what I just said.”

“’Are you even listening to me?’” Grantaire obliged.

Enjolras narrowed his eyes, fury blazing in his eyes. “A _stale baguette_ would do a better job of understanding environmental problems,” he seethed, before swirling on his heels and exiting the room.

An almost deafening silence reigned for all of three seconds before Feuilly said loudly, “Technically, he didn’t call R a stale baguette. He said that he’s worse than one. Not the same, Rel. I do believe you owe me ten francs, mon cœur,” he smirked amidst Bahorel’s vociferous protests.

* * *

Enjolras groaned as he dug through his wardrobe before coming up empty. The day was already shaping up to be a catastrophe, and Enjolras hasn't even stepped out of his room.

It was Enjolras’ wont to wear red—or, failing that, dark-blue. His wardrobe consisted primarily of those two colours for that particular reason. Unfortunately, a considerable chunk of his clothes was currently dirty because the washing machine in their building had broken down just as Enjolras was planning on doing his bi-monthly washing—leaving him with woefully little in terms of clothes choice. And on a meeting day, too. Bahorel wouldn't be able to resist the chance to taunt him mercilessly for it, which would inevitably delay their meeting and draw everyone's focus from the important matters—since it seemed that all of Enjolras’ friends had an unhealthy obsession with Enjolras’ choices of clothes, to Enjolras’ endless exasperation—which would only infuriate Enjolras further.

What a magnificent day this was panning out to be. He wasn't holding out much hope for getting anything done today.

With an audible growl, Enjolras haphazardly grabbed a white button-up and an equally pair of slacks—having been spared from the fate of Enjolras’ red clothes by virtue of Enjolras being an opponent of both button-ups and slacks. If nothing else, the fact that he willingly wore that particular combination bespoke the gravity of the situation.

Enjolras didn't even have the time to grab a coffee, the clothes crisis having completely thrown off Enjolras’ morning schedule. He consoled himself with the thought that they had taken to holding the meetings in Enjolras’ favourite coffee shop, which meant that there would definitely be coffee.

On the way across campus, Enjolras couldn't help but notice that he had attracted the attention of quite a few people. Normally, he didn't bother registering such petty facts, especially not when the people were only enamoured with his looks—on this matter at least, Grantaire had an advantage, having fallen for Enjolras’ personality instead of his appearance, which was what made his infatuation bearable in Enjolras’ eyes—but today, more than one person stopped and openly _pointed_ at Enjolras.

Once, one of his admirers having ventured within hearing distance, Enjolras picked up snippets of the conversation. His attention was caught by the repetition of the word ‘Gabriel’ and ‘angel’. Enjolras frowned. This was preposterous—equaling him with a being made out of ineffable Grace and celestial energy, if a being such as that existed, was an inconsiderate degradation of several religions, not to mention, inappropriate, inaccurate, and an abuse of the French language.

He all but sighed in relief when he finally spotted the coffee shop in the distance. He quickened his steps, and was inside the shop in no more than twenty seconds. Ignoring the few looks he got from other customers, he made his way to the table in the back which he and his friends were accustomed to occupying.

Grantaire was the only one who actually looked up, the others being engaged in some discussion or other and only acknowledging him with a nod. Grantaire visibly swallowed, his mostly empty coffee mug slipping through his fingers and clattering onto the table. This drew the attention of everyone at the table, and all pairs of eyes focused on Enjolras, who shifted, not having expected _this_ level of attention.

Nobody spoke for about ten seconds, before Grantaire groaned and stood up with an “ _I am so fucking done!”_ and unceremoniously walked out, followed by eleven bewildered looks, though not before chucking a water bottle—small mercies—at Enjolras’ head. Enjolras deftly dodged it, having had years of experience of Combeferre bombarding him with pens of various types, and it bounced off the wall beside Combeferre.

Enjolras sat down in the chair vacated by Grantaire. “What was _that_ about?” he asked the table at large.

Éponine snickered. “That was R’s reaction to you looking like a literal angel, what with the face and the hair and the clothes and so on. Methinks it fried his circuits _, if you know what I mean_ ,” she winked, to which Enjolras’ friends laughed.

Enjolras massaged his temples, already feeling a headache coming on. He took out his papers out of his laptop bag, quietly thanking a staffer as he brought him his usual coffee despite not having ordered it. “Let’s get started; we have several matters to get through today,” he said. His eyes zeroed in on something. “Feuilly, why have you brought two kittens with you?”

* * *

Javert looked up when a shadow fell on the text he had been pouring over for the past—he surreptively checked the clock—two hours. Has it already been two hours? It felt like seconds.

Éponine was looming over him. Javert sighed internally, already steeling himself for what promised to be an awkward conversation for both parties. He calculated the chances of being able to weasel his way out of it, and didn’t like what he came up with. He gestured at the chair opposite him. “Sit,” he said, his voice implying that it wasn’t a request. To his surprise and satisfaction, she complied. Out of common courtesy, he pushed back the book across the table, focusing on her. “Yes?” he asked expectantly.

“Gavroche,” Éponine said bluntly.

Javert frowned. “Gavroche?” he echoed.

“I figured we should talk about him,” Éponine confirmed.

“What’s there to talk about? He used to be your brother, and now he’s my twin.”

“He _is_ still my brother—in all but blood, that is. And therein lies the problem.”

“I don’t see a problem,” Javert said confusedly.

“We both love him,” Éponine began. “We can agree on that much, right? And we both want him to be happy,” Javert nodded, uncertain as to where she was heading with this. “Your attempt at distancing yourself from him for whatever reason—I don’t give a shit whether it’s because you don’t want to hurt him, or because you don’t feel like you deserve his affection, or maybe because you want to show your independence; I frankly couldn’t care less—is hurting him. He doesn’t show it, but the way he talks, it’s obvious to everyone that he just wants his brother back.

“Tell me,” she switched tracks, nearly giving Javert a whiplash, “did you get your Revelations at the same time?” Javert nodded again. “When?”

“Ten months ago,” Javert informed her.

“Let me guess,” she drawled. “Since then, you’ve been slowly withdrawing from his company—again, I don’t care about the reason for this. Regardless, you’ve _got_ to realize that, from Gavroche’s point of view, he’s losing the person he has been the closest to for _seventeen years_. It’s like losing a limb, and he doesn’t understand _why_ this is happening. It’s incredibly unfair to him.

“Javert, he doesn’t care about who you used to be. The important part is that _you are his brother—_ as he never fails to remind us,” she said, exasperation evident in her voice.

“I’m not a people person.”

“Neither is Joly. Or Combeferre. Or even _Enjolras_ , come to think of it. He loves an ideal, but distances himself from actual human beings. You’d get along well, if you did not believe in opposing ideologies,” she mused. “But we’ve strayed from the subject. My point is that being an introvert does not excuse pushing away your own family for no discernibly good reason,” she pressed her palms against the table. “Get your head out of your ass and talk to Gavroche, or I swear to God, _Inspector_ , that I’ll find every last one of your secret texts and publish them around campus.”

“I do not respond to blackmail,” Javert said sternly, if a little pathetically.

“ _Everyone_ responds to blackmail,” Éponine countered. “It’s just a question of finding the right subject. Good day, inspector.”

* * *

“You know, there’s one thing that continues to confound me,” Combeferre said conversationally. “How did it take you people _two months_ to figure out that Marius was in all of your classes? Aren't you supposed to be observant? I mean, _Enjolras_ I can understand, him being the oblivious dork that he is,” Enjolras huffed indignantly but, being sufficiently self-aware, didn't otherwise protest, “but the rest of you?”

Marius was, at that moment, wrapped up around Courfeyrac, his body shaking with muted sobs, with Courfeyrac hugging him back with all his might. Enjolras and Grantaire were sitting across from them, Grantaire glancing at Marius wistfully while Enjolras looked as though someone had given him a drum set and told him to play. His helpless eyes took in the situation, undoubtedly looking for a way to politely withdraw before the Marius Hugging Committee moved on from Courfeyrac onto the rest of them—which, coincidentally, would mean Enjolras, as he was the closest to the pair.

Maybe Éponine could be convinced to take his place? She’d like that, wouldn’t she?

Combeferre was seated next to Enjolras, tapping his fingers against the tabletop. “It truly astounds me.”

“To be fair,” Éponine pointed out, “Bahorel’s been skipping roughly every other day, and Bossuet has been drawn into the intense singlemindedness that’s Enjolras.”

“Which still doesn’t explain you,” Combeferre returned.

Éponine put her hand to her chest with a dramatic gasp. “I came out to have a good time and I’m honestly feeling so attacked right now.”

Grantaire huffed. “Stop quoting memes, and talk to Marius. You said you think you don’t have a crush on him anymore, didn’t you? Now’s as good a chance as any to find out whether that’s true.”

With a sigh, Éponine stepped up in front of Marius, who reluctantly let go of Courfeyrac, and looked ready to latch onto Éponine any second now. She gazed at Marius for a long while, before smirking. “Yeah, I’m over you,” she decided.

Marius shifted his position. “Can I still hug you?” he asked somewhat uncertainly.

Éponine snickered. “Come here, you dolt,” she said, drawing him in for a hug.

Behind them, Enjolras breathed a relieved sigh.

Sometime later, they settled back around the table, though Marius was still curled up against Courfeyrac—an instinctive reaction to being reunited with that which one thought lost forever. Marius looked around the table, taking account of everyone who was there. “Have you found everybody?” he asked, not quite able to hide the hope in his voice.

“If you mean if we’ve found Cosette, the answer is no,” Jehan shook his head.

“I wish we could swap Javert for Cosette,” Bahorel added under his breath, causing Gavroche to elbow him forcefully.

Marius perked up. “You’ve found the inspector?”

“He’s my brother,” Gavroche told him.

“I still owe him two guns,” Marius mused.

“And your life, partially,” Combeferre added. “Though, for the record, I don’t think he’d appreciate you sending him two antique pistols for Christmas.”

“My life?” Marius echoed.

“Yeah,” Combeferre confirmed. “You know how you were saved by your father-in-law?”

Enjolras had hitherto been satisfied with observing; now, he chimed in. “Jean Valjean.”

“Jean Valjean,” Combeferre nodded. “The person who provided the diligence for you, which, in all probability, prevented you from bleeding to death in the streets or being caught by the National Guard, was Javert.”

Marius gawked at the other man. “How do you know all this?” he wondered.

Combeferre shrugged. “I read _Les Misérables_. I suggest that you do the same; you might learn quite a few things about _certain individuals_.”

“I will,” Marius promised. He glanced around the table, subconsciously smiling as he did so. His eyes zeroed in on Enjolras. “Who gave Enjolras that shirt?” he asked in surprise, pointing at Enjolras’ red shirt with white letters that read, ‘I don’t need sex, the government fucks me every day’.

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “Probably R.”

“ _Definitely_ R,” Feuilly added gleefully.

“If you’re going to be mean, I’m going to leave,” Grantaire declared.

Feuilly put a hand atop Grantaire’s. “We’re not being mean,” he promised sweetly. “We’re simply… appreciating your commitment to your boyfriend.”

“Not boyfriends,” Enjolras corrected automatically. Feuilly exchanged smirks with Bahorel, not even bothering to hide a shit-eating grin.

“It’s sweet, really,” Jehan insisted, “because we all know you practically _shower_ Enjolras with gifts. Like that scarf he’s wearing right now,” he pointed at the red-white-and-blue scarf wrapped around Enjolras’ neck. “You knitted it for him last month because ‘he looked cold’.”

Enjolras put a hand atop Grantaire’s, lacing their fingers together. “It was very thoughtful of you,” he whispered into Grantaire’s ear, causing shivers to run through Grantaire’s spine. “Practical and comfortable. And to think that I didn’t know you could sew,” he added with a smile. Grantaire looked down with a faint blush.

“Cut it out, love birds,” Bahorel ordered.

“No, please do go on,” Courfeyrac grinned. “They’re adorable. Not as adorable as _other people_ ,” he winked suggestively at Combeferre, who rolled his eyes, “but still, you know, _adorable_.”

“’ _Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light’_ ,” Jehan quoted. He grinned at Enjolras and Grantaire. “One of my old poems. It reminds me of you—finding each other after nearly two hundred years.”

Feuilly had to bite his lower lip to reign in his laughter. “Jehan Permel, actual cinnamon roll,” he teased.

Marius leaned back in his seat, squeezed in between Courfeyrac and Musichetta. He hadn’t expected—hoped, yes, but not expected—to meet his friends again, and he wouldn’t give them up for the world.

(Okay, maybe for Cosette. The jury was still out on that one.)

* * *

 _To: Ferre_  
maaaaan this party is craaaaaazy  
wish u were here

 _From: Ferre_  
I'm sick remember

 _To: Ferre_  
apollo just gave me the Disapproving Glare of Doom  
courf just drunk an entire bottle of hand sanitizer oops  
I think he’s drunk??

 _From: Ferre_  
how  
hand sanitizer is basically alcohol, you can get drunk on it BUT YOU SHOULDN’T!!!

 _To: Ferre_  
anyway moving on  
bahorel’s boiling alcohol wtf  
okay apparently feuilly dared him to consume alcohol without, you know, DRINKING IT  
and rel was like hold my cup and FUCKING BOILED THE CHAMPAIGNE

 _From: Ferre  
_ DON’T DO THAT YOU STUPID ONION PEEL

 _To: Ferre_  
enjolras is staring at bahorel in disapproval again  
nvm that’s not urgent  
feuilly is making out w/ both bahorel and jehan at the same time like I didn’t even know that was possible  
#celebratory mathematical threesome #casually defying rules of science  
also uhhhh, jolllly’s carrying around some kind of bacteria detecting device thingy  
think he’s worried he’ll get sick  
tho honestly he worries more than he’s actually sick  
like that time he caught a one-day cold and freaked out about a relapse for a month

 _From: Ferre_  
… R  
not that this isn’t very entertaining but  
why are you sober enough to livetext me this

 _To: Ferre  
_ not really feeling the spirit tonite

 _From: Ferre_  
you’re trying to impress enjolras, aren’t you  
bonne chance, mon ami

Grantaire chuckled, putting away his phone into his pocket. He looked up, only to meet Enjolras’ inquisitive eyes.

"You don't drink," Enjolras said quietly, looking at Grantaire, seemingly searching for something in his eyes.

Grantaire averted his gaze. "Well, no. The last time I did, all of my friends died while I was passed out from the alcohol.”

“But—“ Enjolras frowned. “It’s always been your way of dealing with injustices. I had revolutions, and you had your alcohol. I cannot say that I approve, but on the other hand, I also cannot imagine that you’ve found a way to deal with problems in a non-harmful way.”

“Jesus, thank you for the vote of confidence,” Grantaire drawled. “It means a lot.”

“I don’t appreciate the sarcasm,” Enjolras reprimanded.

Grantaire sighed. He waved his hand dismissively. “Just—trust me when I say that I’ve got a way of dealing with the shit life throws at me. I’ve had to ever since I was a kid. I’m practically a pro at this point,” he forced a smile.

One of the things Enjolras has learned since his past life was how to recognize a lost battle when he saw one. He reluctantly dropped the subject for the time being, instead moving on to the proposed agriculture bill scheduled to be voted on the next Thursday in the Senate.

* * *

Despite his unspoken promise to Grantaire, Enjolras could not simply drop the matter. It was obvious that Grantaire still had problems with both sets of memories, and, if Enjolras knew Grantaire at all, he had implemented some way of dealing with them. The problem was that Enjolras did not trust Grantaire’s techniques for dealing with hardships. He resolved to get to the matter at heart.

His first choice of interrogatée was Éponine. Needless to say, that did not go over well.

“Grantaire has problems,” Enjolras started bluntly, skipping the small talk, getting straight into the heart of things, “and I’m wondering whether he has told you what it is exactly that he does to handle those problems.”

Éponine’s face became impenetrable. “Talk to Grantaire.”

“So you _do_ know,” Enjolras persisted.

“Yes, I do,” Éponine sighed, “but I don’t think it’s my business to tell you. I honestly think this is a conversation you should be having with Grantaire,” she said carefully.

“But that’s the thing,” Enjolras burst out. “He refuses to talk to me about this.”

Éponine didn’t speak for a long while. Then, “I’ll try to talk him into it,” she said before disappearing in the crowd.

* * *

“Jean,” Cosette said, with the same affection in her voice as she would formerly say 'Papa’, “you know that I love you, right?”

“Right,” Jean confirmed, furrowing his brows in confusion. “This is quite out of the blue, Cosette, I must confess.”

Cosette giggled. “The only thing which you _must confess_ is your love for that law-en you've been covertly stalking for the past three months. His name's Javert Jacquet; I've looked him up,” she clarified at Jean’s terrified look. “And if I’m not wrong about him, he’s not going to reject you—provided you get the courage to ask him, of course.”

Jean grimaced. “It never was like that between us—dear Lord, I sound like a walking cliché,” he groaned, to Cosette’s amused nod. “But I have never been interested in romance of any sort, and Javert—well, Javert’s great mistress has always been the law.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Cosette drew out the word. “But from what I’ve been able to understand, first from Marius’ sketchy and now from your admittedly less sketchy explanations, she has abandoned him lately.”

“I’m not interested,” Jean returned, a hint of desperation in his voice.

Cosette sighed. “Change of venue. I’m not saying that you should get together with the guy—although, for the record, it would do the both of you a lot of good, and you’d be an adorable couple—but both you and he need to talk about what has happened. Face it: like it or not, you need each other’s friendship and support.”

Jean did not confirm her words, but neither did he attempt to deny them.

* * *

Enjolras’ second choice was Courfeyrac, which, in retrospect, hadn't been his best decision.

The less said about the incident with the Coca Cola and the fire extinguisher, the better.

* * *

“Growing up, men are taught that they have to be tough, strong, courageous, and dominating,” Enjolras said, having dragged a cafeteria table out into the middle of the campus to stand on, so as to be seen and heard, “that they can feel no pain and no emotions, with the exception of anger, and _definitely_ no fear; that men are in charge, which means women are not; that men _lead_ , and women should just follow and do what men say; that men are superior, simultaneously implying that women are inferior; that men are strong and that women are weak; that women are of _less value_ , property of men, and objects, particularly sexual objects.

“This, citizens,” Enjolras cleared his throat, “is called, in scientific terms, the socialization of men, or, in common French, the ‘man box’. It’s also a social construct, an _illusion_ ; it’s an illusion that we need to challenge. There is _not a single_ individual who isn’t hurt by this—women because they are being oppressed and made to feel inferior, which robs our society of half of incredibly talented human beings because an employer would rather choose a mediocre man than a brilliant woman at a job interview; and men because society, as a whole, is essentially robbing them of an emotional outlet, forcing them to keep every problem in their life inside themselves, which extensive research has proven to have a very negative health on our health, primarily through our hormone levels.”

Enjolras stepped back, locking eyes with Grantaire before nodding encouragingly. Grantaire took a step forward. “One such example is sex. Now, our friend and supermodel Apollo over there,” Grantaire gestured at Enjolras, to which the crowd gave a laugh, “is blissfully unaware of this particular expectation that society places on the male gender, being an oblivious dork of an asexual. But enough about Apollo—let’s talk about sex. Men, as a general rule, have this weird relationship with sex: we don't talk about it—or, more accurately, _the lack of it_. Sure, we gloat about our ‘contests’,” Grantaire rolled his eyes, infusing enough venom into his words to fell an elephant, “but we are never allowed to say that we _don’t_ have it. You only tell your dearest, closest friend, sworn to secrecy for life, the first time you had sex. For everybody else, we go around like we've been having sex since we were two. There isn’t any first time. The other thing about sex is that—and again, this is why Apollo isn’t having this particular part of the speech—we are always expected to _want it_. That's even worse. We're supposed to always be on the prowl. Women are objects, especially sexual objects.

“As men, we are taught to have less value in women, to view them as property and the objects of men. We see that as an equation that equals violence against women. We as men, good men, the large majority of men, we operate on the foundation of this whole collective socialization. We kind of see ourselves separate, but we're very much a part of it. You see, we have to come to understand that less value, property and objectification is the foundation and the violence can't happen without it. So we're very much a part of the solution as well as the problem. We have evolved, but it seems to me that our ideas of gender have not evolved. Gender as it functions today is a grave injustice, to _all_ involved,” Grantaire concluded, backing up and letting Enjolras take the stage again.

Enjolras flashed him a quick smile before stepping onto the very edge of the podium, addressing the entire crowd. “Trying to fit into these guidelines and these structures which, as society tells us, is what defines a ‘man’,” Enjolras made air quotes, to which the public laughed, “is unbelievably exhausting. Trying to hide emotions from other people, when we are all aware of the indisputable fact that everyone feels those same emotions, is tiring—it consumes our energy like a vacuum cleaner. There seems to be a fear that holds men paralyzed and inside this ‘man box’. It’s an irrational fear, but it’s still here. This fear is what we have to fight. Not only we as a society, but first and foremost, we as individuals—those same individuals who _make up_ the society, because we can’t change other people’s attitudes if we don’t change our own attitudes first. Now, this is not, despite my best hopes, a change that can happen overnight, but we do need to start _right now_ , because if we never start, we are never going to get to the finish line either.”

* * *

Enjolras’ third choice was Bossuet. Having learned from his mistake with Courfeyrac, he caught up with Bossuet early in the morning, after Bossuet had consumed enough coffee to cease walking like a zombie but before he could fall into the coma that only lectures with M. Côté could induce.

Enjolras caught up with Bossuet, falling into step beside him. “Bossuet, may I speak with you?”

“Sure,” Bossuet smiled encouragingly. “What about?”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras cut to the chase. “I believe that he’s hiding something.”

The smile melted from Bossuet’s lips. He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Enjolras carried on, “that he doesn’t drink. Which, in itself, is the very opposite of a problem, but I _know_ R—he needs something to help him cope with reality. If he doesn’t drink, by what means does he cope?”

Enjolras noticed that Bossuet had slowed down, eventually coming to a stop. He turned around to face Bossuet. ”What is it?” he demanded, his voice a little harsher than intended.

Bossuet flinched imperceptibly. ”Enjolras—” he began desperately, then stopped. He let out a breath that bespoke a thousand words. ”It is not my place to reveal such things. Talk to R. And promise not to be angry with him.”

Enjolras didn’t speak. Bossuet grabbed his sleeve, dragging him closer, holding him tightly. ” _Promise me,_ ” he reiterated.

”I won’t yell at Grantaire,” Enjolras eventually said in lieu of the promise Bossuet wanted.

Bossuet studied Enjolras’ eyes, searching for something. Abruptly, he let go of the red sleeve. ”Grantaire’s in the observatory.”

Enjolras headed there without a word.

* * *

When Enjolras found Grantaire, the artist was absentmindedly clicking the pen in his left hand on and off, periodically tapping it against the tabletop in a rhythm only he heard. He was staring at a paper in front of him, most of it blank.

Enjolras cleared his throat. Grantaire looked up. When he registered Enjolras’ presence, his lips split into a smile. “Apollo!” he greeted. “What brings you to this humble abode?”

“You,” Enjolras said bluntly.

Grantaire pushed away his papers. “What’s the matter?” he asked, concern written all over his face. “Sit down.”XX

Enjolras remained standing. He unconsciously ran a tongue over his lips, seemingly unaware of Grantaire’s eyes following it. Enjolras skimmed over the mile of books piled up in front of Grantaire. “I’ve been asking around,” he began.

“About what?”

“About you.”

“And you didn’t think to come to _me_?” Grantaire sounded hurt.

“You’ve already dismissed my line of questioning. Back at the party,” Enjolras specified when Grantaire furrowed his brows.

Grantaire sighed, suddenly weary. “Not this again.”

“I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Grantaire took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Don’t be angry,” he beseeched.

Enjolras' eyes narrowed. “I’ll try not to,” he said, which was as close to a promise as he was able to give.

Grantaire seemed to know this, because he didn’t press Enjolras. “I’m doing drugs.”

Enjolras blinked. Surely he had misheard. “I beg your pardon?”

Grantaire huffed. “If either of us should beg the other’s pardon, it ought to be me. You heard me right, Apollo—I’m doing drugs,” he repeated. “Specifically heroin,” he clarified, watching Enjolras carefully, as one would an startled animal.

Enjolras felt a mix of _denial anger fury disappointment hopelessness_. He suppressed it, knowing that even though the information Grantaire had just shared with him made his skin curl, yelling at the brunet was the opposite of a good approach. Grantaire didn’t have to share this, but he trusted Enjolras enough to part with his secret. Besides, he had promised Bossuet. (Which meant that Éponine, Courfeyrac, and Bossuet had _known, and done nothing_. They would be having _words_ later.)

“I’m not going to yell,” Enjolras declared, in part to calm Grantaire and in part to affirm to himself that he was, indeed, not going to do any such thing. “But you need to talk to me. Why are you using heroin? Do you even know what effects it has on your body?”

“I think I made the _why_ clear,” Grantaire snapped. “I know the long-term consequences of heroin intake. It damages the lungs and the heart, and it affects the mind and the ability to think. It’s the same symptoms frequent consumption of alcohol has. I’ve done the research, Apollo.”

Enjolras took a steadying breath. “Abandoning one vice for another is no way to cope.”

“Not everyone is as _perfect_ as you are,” Grantaire retorted. “Some of us do need something to take our mind off reality.”

“Books do that.”

“Don’t you think _I’ve tried_?” Grantaire exclaimed. “Give me a little more credit than _that_.”

“I don’t know if I should,” Enjolras retorted. “Before today, I would not have been able to believe that you would be so _colossally_ _stupid_ as to become a _drug addict_. There are _other_ ways to cope with one’s problems short of resorting to _heroin_.”

“Like what?” Grantaire scoffed. “Gratuitous sex? You’ve made it abundantly clear that you’re never going to sleep with me.”

Enjolras stiffened at Grantaire’s words. A deafening silence followed.

“I should not have said that,” Grantaire muttered.

Enjolras deliberately looked anywhere but at Grantaire as he said, “It is apparent that you’ve got everything under control, monsieur. I will interrupt you no longer.”

Grantaire’s breath hitched. “Apollo—“ he called out to Enjolras’ retreating back.

Enjolras didn’t give an indication of having heard him. He left as abruptly as he had arrived.

* * *

 _From: Grantaire Le Roux_  
Apollo, I need to talk to you.  
Apollo, please.  
I didn’t mean what I said back there.  
You’ve got to understand.  
Apollo, talk to me.  
Apollo?  
Enjolras?

* * *

Grantaire realized that he had screwed up as soon as the words left his mouth. He had never wished to be able to rewrite time as much as he did in that moment.

It was just typical, wasn’t it—he had something great with the person he loved for longer than he cared to remember, something he hadn’t imagined that Enjolras would agree to, let alone _initiate_ , and Grantaire _blew it_. Good job.

Grantaire tried texting Enjolras, to no avail. He tried calling Enjolras, but Enjolras seemed to have blocked Grantaire’s calls because every single one of them went to voicemail. Grantaire tried visiting Enjolras and Combeferre’s dorm, only to be told by Combeferre that Enjolras was conveniently always ‘out’ or ‘unavailable’ whenever Grantaire dropped by. He felt a pang of something he hadn’t felt in a long time regarding Enjolras, but frankly, he only had himself to blame for this mess.

Grantaire even roped Éponine into baking cupcakes with Enjolras' face on, and left them for Enjolras to find. The baking did take Grantaire’s mind off Enjolras for a little while—Éponine was awesome like that.

The next day, he found the entire batch on his doorstep, untouched.

* * *

In the end, Grantaire took one last shot at working himself into Enjolras’ good graces. If this failed—Well. Enjolras made it explicitly clear that there were some lines he didn’t tolerate crossing.

”HIV brings out the best and the worst in humanity,” Enjolras was addressing the crowd around him from an elevated podium. Grantaire smiled intuitively when he saw the blond. ”And the laws reflect these attitudes. I'm not just talking about laws on the books, but laws as they are enforced on the streets and laws as they are decided in the courts. And I'm not just talking about laws as they relate to people living with HIV, but people who are at greatest risk of infection—people such as those who inject drugs, or sex workers, or men who have sex with men, or transgendered people, or migrants, or prisoners. And in many parts of the world that includes women and children who are especially vulnerable.

”Now there are laws in many parts of the world which reflect the best of human nature. These laws treat people touched by HIV with compassion and acceptance. These laws respect universal human rights and they are grounded in evidence. These laws ensure that people living with HIV and those at greatest risk are protected from violence and discrimination and that they get access to prevention and to treatment.

”Unfortunately, these good laws are counterbalanced by a mass of really bad law—law which is grounded in moral judgement and in fear and in misinformation, laws which specifically punish people living with HIV or those at greatest risk. These laws fly in the face of science, and they are grounded in prejudice and in ignorance and in a rewriting of tradition and a selective reading of religion.

”But let’s talk about the ways a law can make a positive difference. For example, people who inject drugs are one of those groups I mentioned. They're at high risk of HIV through contaminated injection equipment and other risk-related behaviors. In fact, one in every ten new infections of HIV is among people who inject drugs. Now, the possession or use of drugs is illegal in almost every country. But some countries take a harder line on this than others.

”In Thailand, people who use drugs,” Enjolras paused, as if remembering something, ”or are even simply _suspected_ of using drugs, are placed in detention centers, where they are supposed to clean up. Now, there is absolutely _no evidence_ to show that throwing people into detention cures their drug dependence. There _is_ , however, ample evidence to show that incarcerating people increases their risk of HIV and other infections.

”We _know_ how to reduce HIV transmission and other risks in people who inject drugs. It's called harm reduction, and it involves, among other things, providing clean needles and syringes, offering opioid substitution therapy and other evidence-based treatments to reduce drug dependence. It involves providing information and education and condoms to reduce HIV transmission, and also providing HIV testing and counseling and treatment should people become infected. Where the legal environment allows for harm reduction the results are striking.”

Enjolras glanced around the crowd. ”While I don’t advocate free drug usage,” Enjolras hurried to add, “far from it—I am more concerned about public health and safety than about what you do in the privacy of, hopefully, your own home.”

“If you’re drunk enough not to be able to get a condom on, you shouldn’t be having sex,” Grantaire added from behind Enjolras, having somehow appeared on the stage without Enjolras noticing.

Enjolras turned on his heels, giving Grantaire a withering look. ”Indeed,” his voice was dripping with venom. He went on, seemingly still addressing the crowd but keeping his eyes on Grantaire. ”However, it has been explained to me by someone I thought I knew that sex is an essential part of a person’s life. You wouldn’t want to _miss out_ on this _amazing_ experience.”

”That’s not—” Grantaire began loudly, then remembered that they had an audience. He lowered his voice to a whisper. ”We’ll talk later, okay?”

Enjolras didn’t acknowledge him.

“Now, remember," the blond continued, "there are as many different ways of being rational as there are human beings in existence. We may _think_ that we are rational about drugs and sex, but in reality…”

* * *

As soon as Enjolras stepped off the stage, he was cornered by Grantaire. “I’m sorry,” were the first words out of Grantaire’s mouth. “I’m terribly sorry. I should not have said that. I didn’t mean any of what I said.”

Enjolras purposefully didn’t meet Grantaire’s eyes. “Your words back there would beg to differ,” he said frigidly.

“Apollo— _Enjolras_. You know that I’m not that kind of person.”

“And what kind of person do you mean?” Enjolras’ upper lip curled up in something between a smirk and a snarl.

“A— _needy_ person. Someone who thrusts their needs on other people. I don’t want to have sex with you as long as _you_ don’t want it, because it would be forcing _you_ to change, or ot give up part of what makes you _you_ , and I’d rather be shot again than do that to you,” Grantaire said seriously.

Enjolras didn’t know how to respond. When it became clear that Enjolras would not say anything, Grantaire went on.

“I wish I could take back what I said back there. I said it in a moment of anger, when I didn’t watch my words.”

“So you _do_ mean it,” Enjolras remarked coldly.

Grantaire shook his head. “No, I don’t. I grasped for words that would hurt you, that would end that conversation, because I didn’t want to talk about it. But I seem to only have made it worse,” he said, sounding suddenly defeated.

Enjolras sighed. He glanced at Grantaire, then looked away. Grantaire didn’t have to be a genius to figure out the look in Enjolras’ eyes: disappointment. “Are you at least using a clean needle?” Enjolras asked finally.

“Of course I am!” Grantaire said, affronted. “I’m not an _idiot_.”

“Well, I _wouldn’t know,_ now would I?” Enjolras snapped. “I hadn’t expected you to be frequently injecting yourself with _heroin_.”

”I won’t apologize for that,” Grantaire said firmly. ”It’s my choice, and it’s my life.”

”What about the _people_ in your life?” Enjolras slashed a hand through the air. ”What about the people affected by your choices?” _What about_ me _?_ he seemed to say.

Grantaire didn’t know what to answer, couldn’t find the words in himself to explain what he meant. He didn’t mean that Enjolras wasn’t important—quite the opposite. Enjolras was the single most important person in his life. His parents weren’t exactly in the picture.

Enjolras suddenly wobbled. Concerned, Grantaire reached out a hand to steady him. It either said a lot about Enjolras' capacity for forgiveness or physical state that he didn't try to shake it off—and Grantaire was all too intimately familiar with Enjolras' perchant for holding grudges if he perceived a committed injustice.

"You look exhausted," Grantaire murmured.

Enjolras attempted to roll his eyes, losing his balance halfway through. "I'm fine," he insisted.

Grantaire frowned. Enjolras' definition of 'fine' tended to be quite loose, at least whenever it concerned his health. "When was the last time you slept?" he asked, pressing his other hand to the small of Enjolras’ back to keep him in place.

Knowing Enjolras and his intense work ethics—that, frankly, terrified Grantaire at times—the blond might well have skipped sleep ever since his fight with Grantaire.

_What if their fight was the reason—_

Grantaire clamped down hard on his thoughts.

Enjolras had a pensive look on his face, as though calculating something. “Tuesday, I think,” he said.

Grantaire didn’t like the uncertainty in his voice. “We are shelving this discussion until you get some rest,” he said, his voice tolerating no disagreements. “And by rest, I mean at least eight hours of consecutive sleep.”

Enjolras looked up at Grantaire. “Trust me, I know my limits.”

“Apollo,” Grantaire replied in exasperation, “I trust you with my life and soul, but I certainly don’t trust you with _yours_. You are going to sleep, and this is final. Don’t make me call Combeferre,” he threatened when Enjolras still looked like he was going to put up an argument.

This, more than anything, gave Enjolras pause. Grantaire spent a brief moment wishing that _his_ name could have such an effect on Enjolras, before he took advantage of Enjolras’ distraction to steer him in the direction of his dorm.

Enjolras didn’t protest. So miracles _did_ happen. Someone call the Vatican.

* * *

Cosette was on a mission, codenamed Find Javert (she never claimed that she was _good_ at naming things; case in point: her children). This posed a problem, as Javert had an uncanny talent of making himself invisible whenever one was looking for him, as though he had a sixth sense that told him when something was afoot.

Cosette, therefore, was in dire need of a Plan To Find Javert. Her modus operandi? Find someone who knew Javert, and wait for Javert to appear on his own. How, then, to find one of Javert’s acquaintances?

Reportedly, Javert had a brother on-campus, who was close friends with an already-renowned group of activists headed by a stunningly beautiful law student with, according to the rumour mill, ‘the eyes the colour of the sky and the hair the colour of the sun’—which Cosette thought was a shitty description, since the sun was white, or very close to it, and she _would have noticed_ if there had been a male version of Daenerys Targaryen on campus.

When pressed, Cosette’s classmate admitted that the law student’s hair was actually blond—“ _Golden_ , Cosette, a striking shade of _gold._ ”—but that the description didn’t do it justice. “It ought to have a fan club all of its own,” Léo continued insistently.

Cosette’s plan hinged on a) finding the ‘blond social justice warrior’, and b) Javert being in touch with his brother.

The former wasn’t exactly hard. (Cosette was still crossing her fingers for the latter.)

* * *

“Around the time of puberty, teenagers experience a delay in their biological clock,” Enjolras was speaking from atop a little podium in the middle of the campus, a not insignificant crowd having gathered around him and listening with fascination, “which determines when we feel most awake and when we feel most sleepy.”

“This is driven in part by a shift in the release of the hormone melatonin,” Combeferre picked up where Enjolras stopped. “Teenagers' bodies wait to start releasing melatonin until around 11 pm, which is two hours later than what we see in adults or younger children. This means that waking a teenager up at 6 am is the biological equivalent of waking an adult up at 4am. For many teens battling chronic sleep loss, their go-to strategy to compensate is consuming large quantities of caffeine in the form of venti frappuccinos, or energy drinks and shots.”

”Adolescence is a period of dramatic brain development,” Enjolras spoke again, passion infused in his every word, ”particularly in the parts of the brain that are responsible for those higher order thinking processes, including reasoning, problem-solving and good judgment. In other words, the very type of brain activity that's responsible for reining in those impulsive and often risky behaviours that are so characteristic of adolescence.”

”Tragically,” Combeferre made a theatrical pause, ”the consequences of teen sleep loss go well beyond the classroom, contributing to many of the mental health problems that skyrocket during adolescence, including substance use, depression and suicide. Then there's the risk of putting a sleep-deprived teen, with a newly minted driver's license, behind the wheel. Studies have shown that getting five hours or less of sleep per night is the equivalent of driving with a blood alcohol content above the legal limit.”

“Given all this,” Enjolras spread out his arms, making prolonged eye contact with the crowd before them, “does it not follow logically that we should delay school starting times, especially for teenagers? Granted, delaying start times also presents many logistical challenges. Not just for students and their families, but for communities as a whole. Updating bus routes, increased transportation costs, impact on sports, care before or after school. These are the same concerns that come up in district after district, time and again around the country as school start times are debated. And they're legitimate concerns, but these are problems we have to work through. They are not valid excuses for failing to do the right thing for the future generation of our country.”

The crowd applauded. Unseen, in the back, there was a young woman studying the speaker calculatingly.

* * *

“You should not be outside,” Enjolras scolded Combeferre, who merely rolled his eyes.

“I find it amusing how you are concerned with my health, despite the fact that my fever broke _two weeks ago_ , yet have no time to pay attention to the demands of your own body, _and, for God’s sake, would you stop tugging at my scarf_?”

Enjolras let go of Combeferre’s scarf reluctantly. “That is not the same thing and you _know it._ For one, I am responsible for your health. Second, not the one with—“ he began, but his protest was cut off by a voice behind him.

“Enjolras Rousseau?”

He indicated to Combeferre that they would continue the discussion at a later time. He turned around, groaning internally when he connected the voice to the figure of an approaching young woman. Probably one of his ‘fan girls’, he thought with dismay. Courfeyrac would never let him hear the end of it it now.

“Yes?” he forced himself to say politely. _“Be polite, Enjolras_ ,” Combeferre had told him more than once. _“They’re much more prone to actually heed your words when you’re polite.”_

The blonde woman smiled, extending her hand. “Cosette Fabre,” Enjolras shook the hand mechanically. “Do you know someone named Javert?”

Enjolras blinked. Of all the things he had expected her to ask, the matter of Javert had been far from it. “Yes,” he said carefully. “I do. He’s the brother of a friend. Why do you need to get ahold of Javert?” he asked suspiciously, because spy or not, Javert was still one of the old souls, and reluctantly entangled with Enjolras’ inner circle through both Gavroche and Marius.

Cosette huffed. She tilted her head to look up at Enjolras, eyes startling even amidst the brightness of nature. “My—let’s say _friend_ , has some unfinished business with him, and it’s, quite frankly, beginning to get on my nerves.”

Enjolras frowned as warning bells went off in his head. Cosette. _Cosette_. Now where had he heard that name before? He coud have sworn that he heard someone mention a Cosette lately.

“I, for my part,” Cosette continued, “want to reunite with my late husband.”

“You’re an old soul too?” Enjolras tilted his head, studying the woman in front of him.

“Yeah,” Cosette said cheerfully. “My past name was Madame la Baronne Cosette Pontmercy, neé Fauchelevent.”

Enjolras drew in a sharp breath. “You’re Marius’ Cosette,” he murmured, finally connecting the dots and cursing himself for being so slow on the uptake.

“That’s me,” Cosette grinned. “Marius has told me a lot about you. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

Combeferre, meanwhile, had given Enjolras some privacy, walking several meters behind the pair when it became clear that the woman talking with Enjolras did not, in fact, put it as her personal goal to seduce him. Now, however, he stepped forward, putting a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “We have a meeting in half an hour,” he reminded him quietly.

“I would not be so foolish as to forget it,” Enjolras snapped, then visibly took a few deep breaths. “Sorry. That was unwarranted.”

“Yes, it was,” Combeferre agreed mildly. Turning to Cosette, he offered his hand with a charming smile. “It’s rude to intrude upon other people’s conversation partners, mademoiselle, especially that of a stranger. However, Enjolras doesn’t seem keen on introducing us. My name is Combeferre Maillard.”

Cosette smiled, shaking his hand. “Cosette Fabre.”

Combeferre furrowed his eyebrows. “Cosette is quite an unusual name. You wouldn’t happen to know a certain Marius, would you?”

Cosette’s laughter showed off her pearly teeth. “He was my husband. How astute of you, monsieur,” she teased.

“I imagine it took Enjolras longer than that,” Combeferre said commiseratingly.

“So it’s not just me?”

"Oh, no," Combeferre assured her. "Don't take it personally. Enjolras simply has this tendency to to shift attention as soon as matters of the heart come up. Which, speaking of..." Combeferre paused, sizing Cosette up. "You'll be delighted to learn that we've found Marius—again, no thanks to Enjolras' observation skills," he shot a teasing look at Enjolras.

“I see,” Cosette said, stifling snickers.

“So,” Enjolras spoke again, studying Cosette as though she was an art exhibit, “you are the woman who seduced Marius from the fight for equality.”

Cosette blinked in confusion. Combeferre rolled his eyes long-sufferingly. “Ignore him,” he advised. Then, turning to Enjolras, “You are literally the only person who thinks that Marius had been seduced _away_ from the barricade. You _do_ remember that he was there, don’t you? And that he arrived as a _result_ of his love for Cosette?”

“Inconsequential,” Enjolras said briskly.

“ _Inconsequential_ my ass,” Combeferre snorted. He then addressed Cosette. “We are meeting at the café L’Aurore du Jour.”

Cosette perked up. “I know where that is!” she beamed. “They have delicious hot chocolate with a shot of mint. Literally to die for,” she continued, then gasped in horror. “Pardon me! I had not meant—“

Combeferre waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry. Feuilly has already made more than enough barricade jokes for us to have grown accustomed to it. Anyway,” he looked at his clock, “we meet at seven. I’ll try to convince Roche to drag Javert along, so if you would invite your friend, that would be lovely.”

* * *

“All I’m saying is that, based on the information we had at the time, we could not have known what consequences those procedures would have had, nor their effectiveness. They were accepted, as you remember, as proper science on the basis that ‘they work, ergo it’s true’. We had no way of knowing.”

“We both know that pragmatism is among the worst truth theories out there. Combeferre, we both agree that it was a horrible practice, and I feel ashamed of having been part of it, however distantly and briefly.

“And I,” Combeferre lifted his hand, “think that I need to remind you that this is exactly what you would have said about modern practices, had you been living two hundred years from now. Remember _Star Trek IV_?”

Instead of rolling his eyes at Combeferre’s geekiness, Joly simply looked terrified. “Combeferre, what if it _is_? What if we are again reborn in two hundred years and realize that our actions here were no more defendable than our actions in the nineteenth century?”

“Then we deal,” Combeferre said, voice set in stone. “We can’t expect perfection from ourselves, any more than we can expect it from others. We don’t know the future, only the present—and the present is as it is, medical procedures and all. Yes, it may turn out that everything we believe to be just and ethical now might be proven wrong in a century, but we can’t affect that without adapting and trying to make progress. Besides, what’s the alternative, if you don’t want to use modern methods? Go back to the Middle Ages?” Joly shuddered at this. “I thought so. Joly, I do agree that modern medicine isn’t perfect, but it’s a whole lot better than what we had.”

“I still feel guilty about the way women were expected to behave and think differently because of their physiology.”

“Enjolras had already given me a lecture on that one, Joly. Besides, it still happens, to an extent, and you do have to admit that the difference in hormones between the two genders—sorry, sexes,” Combeferre corrected himself under Enjolras’ glare, “does lead to a slightly different behaviour at times.”

“That’s conservative propaganda,” Enjolras commented.

“Then there were the humours,” Combeferre continued, ignoring Enjolras with patented ease, to which the other med student groaned.

“Don’t remind me,” Joly muttered. “And the ‘women were men turned inside out’ thing.”

Combeferre frowned. “That was beginning to disappear, though,” he pointed out.

“I hated the theory that ‘the body is a closed system of finite energy and mental, physical, and sexual energy expenditure are in competition for that energy’. In retrospect, it was the cause of many of the notions that women’s intellectual pursuits damaged their reproductive capability.”

“At least we got the rest part right, mon ami,” Combeferre consoled. “As well as the idea that disease transmission was, in part, caused by the genetic component as well as one’s individual lifestyle.”

“Only in part, Ferre,” Joly returned. “We forgot the water- and air-borne infections like the bloody _TB_. Even taking this into consideration, this isn’t a very good statistic. People often got infections from unsterile equipment. We listed anger and lethargy as illnesses; we listed ‘bad emotions’ as the cause of fever, and ‘passionate rage or fear’ as the cause of cholera. But the _really_ horrible part was that we used to use emetic and laxative purgation as an effective treatment as well as bleeding by leeches to ‘clear impurities from the body’ as well as prayer.”

“A lot of these diseases, such as the cholera, was caused by dirty water and ineffective sewage systems,” Enjolras cut in.

Combeferre groaned. “Not you as well, Enjolras. But you do have to admit that it wasn’t our personal fault. Yes, we did have a part in all this, but we were not its sole cause.”

Joly had no response to this.

Enjolras cleared his throat to get their attention. “If you gentlemen are quite done arguing…” he trailed off pointedly.

“By all means, do start the meeting,” Courfeyrac smirked. “I’d rather listen to you talk politics than watch this passive-aggressive argument about ancient medicine,” he ignored Combeferre and Joly’s matching shouts of indignation.

“Let us begin, then,” Enjolras started the meeting. “Tonight,” he told their friends already gathered around the table, noting with a not insignificant amount of amusement that Gavroche had, indeed, managed to convince Javert to come along, “we’ve managed to recruit“—Combeferre snorted at this—“ _recruit_ ,” Enjolras went on stiffly, “two new members.”

“Who are they?” Marius asked curiously. “Is that why _Javert_ is here?”

Combeferre’s lips curled. “Oh, I think you’ll enjoy this one.”

Right on time, the door opened and a pair stepped in. Combeferre waved, attracting their attention, and beckoning them to their table.

“Hello again,” Cosette said cheerfully.

Beside Gavroche, Javert stiffened, just as Marius drew in a sharp breath. “Cosette?” he said disbelievingly.

Cosette grinned. “Good to see you again, love.”

Marius stood up. “But—you—“ he shook his head, as if to dispel the thoughts plaguing it. He turned his eyes to Enjolras and Combeferre. “You knew that she was alive,” he accused. “You _knew_ , and you didn’t tell me.”

Combeferre raised his hands defensively. “Only since this morning. Cosette found us at the speech we were co-holding. Yes, the sleep one,” he elaborated when Feuilly opened his mouth to ask follow-up questions.

Valjean tore his eyes from where they had been focused to the point of paralysis on Javert, glancing briefly at Cosette. “Is that how you know them? But I told you that you shouldn’t—“

“Not everything is about you or the inspector,” Cosette interrupted. “I missed my husband,” she said simply.

Bahorel coughed pointedly. “Would anyone care to introduce us?”

“Oh, right,” Marius said quickly, cheeks flushing faintly. “Cosette, father, these are my friends: Courfeyrac, Gavroche, Éponine, Bossuet, Joly, Musichetta, Bahorel, Jehan, and Feuilly, and you already know Enjolras and Combeferre. And that’s Javert, Gavroche’s brother, although you already know him as well,” he pointed at Javert, who had been doing a splendid job of trying to blend in with the shadows behind him. “Guys—which I mean in a totally gender-neutral way,” he added at Éponine’s frown, “this is Cosette…” he trailed off, looking questioningly at Cosette.

“Fabre,” Cosette added helpfully.

“My erstwhile wife,” Marius picked up, “and Jean Valjean, my father-in-law.”

“It’s Jean Vasseur nowadays. Also, I would ask you not to call me father,” Jean requested. “We are the same age—“

“Technically, you are two years older than they are,” Cosette chimed in.

“Roughly the same age, then,” Jean corrected himself. “It sounds odd.”

Éponine stood up. She narrowed her eyes as she took in Cosette. “You’re Cosette,” she said eventually.

Cosette offered her hand to Éponine. “Yes. Éponine, right?” Éponine nodded. “Nice to meet you,” Cosette said boldly, absentmindedly pushing a stray hair behind her ear. Éponine followed the movement with her eyes, then cursed when she realized what she was doing. What was wrong with–

Oh. _Oh. Well, fuck.  
_

Éponine swallowed as she shook Cosette’s hand. “I’ve got to go,” she said suddenly, leaning down briefly to grab her bag, before all but storming out of the coffee shop.

Jehan blinked at the non-sequitur. “What just happened?”

“Beats me,” Bossuet shrugged. He gestured at the seats opposite him. “Sit down. You’re unnerving me.”

Cosette sat down obligingly. Before Jean could sit, Javert appeared at Jean’s side. Jean’s eyes flicked up to meet Javert’s. “Javert,” he said quietly.

“24601,” Javert replied in the same voice.

“And I’m Courfeyrac, thank you for asking,” Courfeyrac cut in, breaking the oppressing silence the best way he knew how to: with humour.

“I need to speak with you,” Javert said formally. “Privately,” he emphasized.

Jean didn’t protest when Javert all but dragged him outside. Javert distantly heard Feuilly and Bahorel make a bet on whether they’d kiss or punch each other. Javert wasn’t sure of what was going to happen, either, truth be told, and it unsettled him.

He stopped under a tree, finally letting go of Jean’s jacket. “Valjean—“ he began at length.

“It’s Vasseur, actually,” Jean said calmly. “Jean Vasseur, at your service.”

“24601,” Javert intoned gravely. “We meet again.”

Jean sighed. “How many times have I asked you not to call me that? These days, people will think you’re weird if you keep doing that. Well,” he shrugged, “either that, or you’ll come off as a Les Mis fan. The chances for either are fifty-fifty, really. So, are we finally going to have that conversation we ought to have had, had you not committed suicide?”

“I don’t regret it,” Javert retorted defensively.

“But you are no longer suicidal?” Jean asked to ascertain.

Javert was quiet for a long moment, staring at Jean thoughtfully. “No,” he finally said. “I’m not. But I don’t know how to fix it. How to fix _me_.”

“What’s there to fix?” Jean’s voice was genuinely puzzled. “You performed your duty admirably.”

“That’s exactly it!” Javert shouted, not caring if anyone else heard him. “I did my duty, but I did not realize that, in putting duty above all, I did more harm than good,” he sighed, and it was as if all the air had been let out of him. “You should have killed me. It would have been easier.”

“Your death was never my goal, Javert,” Jean said softly.

“This—“ Javert gestured around him, “this crisis, this break of faith, it will be my downfall. I cannot handle it.”

“I will help you,” Jean volunteered instantly.

Javert scoffed, but even as he said, “Who said that I want your help?”, he realized that he didn’t _not_ want it. Like it or not, Jean Valjean was the one constant over the years in his past life, even if, in the end, he realized that he did not know him at all. He had only focused on Jean Valjean the convict, never on Jean Valjean the man. In searching for the destroyer, he had missed the repairman.

Jean tilted his head in consideration. “Whose help _would_ you accept, then?” he asked curiously—and therein laid the problem: Javert couldn’t hope to even begin fixing his world view (if it could, indeed, be ‘fixed’) on his own, but he would refuse the help of a stranger.

Which left Jean.

He bit his lip before looking up at Jean. He hated this—hated being dependent on another person, hated admitting that, hated that he was at a loss as to where to begin. But most of all, he hated that he didn’t hate it as much as he should. “No one but you,” he finally confessed. “It has always been you.”

Jean smiled.

“Gavroche tells me that I am obsessed with you,” Javert added in an attempt to eliminate the emotional atmosphere surrounding the pair.

Jean tilted his head. “Funny, that; Cosette tells me the exact same thing.”

Gently, as if approaching a frightened animal, Jean reached out and put a hand on Javert’s shoulder. To their mutual surprise, Javert didn’t try to remove it.

Jean Valjean was the one who made his life complicated in the first place. It was only fitting, Javert supposed, that he helped Javert straighten it out.

* * *

“Seriously, twenty francs says they’ll punch each other,” Feuilly said.

Bahorel snorted. “I’m not taking that bet.”

“I am,” Cosette said confidently. All eyes turned to her. She smiled innocently. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? They’re going to make out.”

Feuilly looked at her doubtfully. “If you think so,” he said skeptically.

Musichetta cleared her throat. “What if neither happens?”

Feuilly hummed thoughtfully. He turned to Cosette. “Musichetta does raise a valid point. What if—“

“Count me in,” Gavroche said. “On the bet, I mean. I don’t think anything’s going to happen, not judging by the sheer amount of denial Jav’s in right now. He’s, like, an Egyptian.”

Musichetta rolled her eyes. “How witty,” she drawled. Courfeyrac snickered.

“If you look up 'insipid' in a dictionary,” Feuilly snorted in condescension, “there'll be a picture of Javert next to it. There’s just _no way_ Jean will be interested.”

Gavroche huffed. “You don't do Javert justice. Right now, he reminds me of a scared animal, ready to bolt at the slightest indication of trouble. He won’t do anything.”

Enjolras leaned back in his seat, observing his friends with a smile, focusing on the camaraderie rather than what was being said. Later, if asked to recount what the discussion had been about, he would have been unable to tell.

“I really hope that you haven’t planned anything for this meeting,” Joly said sympathetically to Enjolras, who shook his head.

“I _am_ learning from the past. Slowly, but I’m learning.”

Courfeyrac made a show of applauding slowly. “Baby steps, Enjolras. Baby steps.”

“So,” Cosette asked, having temporarily settled the problem of the bet, “what’s everyone studying? I’m doing my second year of sociology, and Jean is law.”

“Law?” Bossuet echoed, shifting his posture so that he wasn’t putting pressure on his bandaged wrist—the same wrist Jehan had been doodling on for the past five minutes. “I can’t speak for everyone, but I think I’d have noticed if the guy from the barricades had been in my law class.”

Cosette blinked. “The barric—“ she echoed, before shaking her head. “How many of you are even taking law?”

Courfeyrac did a quick headcount. “Five.”

“Woah. For your information, Jean’s two years older than you, and one year older than me, which means he’s two grades above you. And what did you mean by ‘the guy from the barricade’?” she narrowed her eyes.

The looks Courfeyrac and Bossuet exchanged were like those of a kid caught with their hand in a cookie jar. Nobody spoke. “ _Well?_ ” Cosette demanded.

As one, the entire group turned their eyes to Enjolras, looking for guidance. Cosette likewise turned her inquiring eyes on the blond. Enjolras met her eyes squarely. “I think you should ask Jean about this.”

“Oh, I will,” Cosette said ominously. “I most certainly will.”

* * *

One of Enjolras’ small quirks, those that one only really noticed if one spent a considerate amount of time around a person, was his persisting hatred of all things Napoleonic. He didn’t make it obvious this time around, because there were other, more important, issues to advocate, and Enjolras did eventually learn compartmentalizing.

One of the things Enjolras had learned was the phenomenon best known as the ‘morality blindness’ to opposing points of views—the idea that one’s political beliefs, the more certain they are, the more they blind us to how the other side sees this issue, why they see it that way, and what values _they_ have.

This didn’t stop Enjolras from showing his displeasure with all things Napoleon, as evidenced in his reaction when he saw a sign with the words Restaurant Français: Chez Napoléon. He pulled a face, and Grantaire could have sworn that he heard Enjolras mutter, "Hell is real" under his breath.

He stifled a grin. “You’re adorable,” he told Enjolras, who gave him the kind of bewildered look that meant he didn’t understand Grantaire but was willing to indulge him.

They still weren’t entirely okay. Enjolras was still adamant that Grantaire should quit the heroin, while Grantaire was at his wits’ end in regards to how to explain it to Enjolras that he really didn’t have another choice, and that it seemed to work well enough so far. Every time he tried to use that argument, Enjolras simply quoted Hume, saying that one couldn’t deduce an ‘ought’ from an ‘is’; to this, Grantaire replied that he wasn’t talking to Hume but to Enjolras.

Despite this, things began to improve between them. Their relationship almost felt better, cleaner, _purer_ , now that there were no secrets between them. There was a grain of truth to the saying that confession purifies the soul.

(Of course, Enjolras still looked ready to punch him every time Grantaire made the joke about being not a drug addict but a ‘freelance pharmaceutical inspector’.

“A rose by any other name would be as thorny, Grantaire.”

“That’s not how the quote went, Apollo.”)

* * *

Javert wasn’t doing very well.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Javert admitted. He looked ready to tear out his hair. “I don’t even know how to begin.”

“May I help?” Jean requested.

“Isn’t that what you’re here for?” Javert snapped, regretting his words as soon as they left his mouth.

Jean didn’t let himself be affected by Javert’s words. ”In itself,” Jean began, ”an adherence to the human law isn’t necessarily bad. In fact, it’s an admirable quality. It’s when this adherence is at the expense of (the suffering of) other innocent human beings, that it becomes a problem. The law is a way of protecting our society and making sure that its individuals don’t commit heinous crimes, but the price of that control can’t be the very beings which it seeks to protect. As Shakespeare wrote, ’Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied’. And before you ask, that also includes criminals, or at least ex-criminals.”

“Why should I listen to you? You’re a convict yourself,” Javert spat.

“A _former_ convict,” Jean corrected him gently. “Reincarnation is a second chance, is it not? Besides, is the point of imprisonment not to atone for one’s crimes? Purification? Purgatory, perhaps? What is the point of trying to redeem oneself if, in the eyes of society, one is never redeemed? Does this attitude not encourage crime, rather than deter it as is its theoretical goal?”

Javert scowled. “I don’t know how to do my job with this new… _conscience_ ,” he said with distaste. “All my life, I have been putting my complete and total trust in the law. It has been absolute and non-negotiable. I had been a physical extension of the law. What am I, now that I lack that certainty?”

Jean wrapped his hand around Javert’s shoulder. “You are more than your work and you know it. You are a just and honourable person who has always tried to do the right thing, even misguided. You can change the authority you follow, but changing who you are is much harder; it’s not impossible, but it’s _excruciatingly hard._ That’s why it’s a fortunate thing that you are already who you are—more simple this way.”

“You’ve lost me,” Javert admitted.

Jean paused for a second. “You are a good person. You only need to change your approach. Trust your gut feeling. Listen to the law, but show compassion to your fellow human beings, even—especially—when they’ve done something terrible. Remember extenuating circumstances. It’s when people are at their lowest that they need our compassion the most. Our characters aren’t measured by how we treat our superiors, but my how we treat our inferiors.”

“I get the message,” Javert grunted. Jean let his hand fall away. “No need to go all philosophical.”

“Good,” Jean beamed. He pushed a take-away bag at Javert. “Chinese?”

Javert gave the food the look someone might give a tiger about to pounce. “I’m not hungry,” he said curtly.

“You haven’t eaten all day,” Jean remarked.

“I don’t have much of an appetite,” Javert reluctantly elaborated. “Ask Gavroche.”

Jean furrowed his brows in bewilderment. “Why?” he persisted. “Is anything the matter?”

Jean reached out to Javert again, but Javert took a step back, so that Jean’s hand grasped only air. “ _There’s nothing wrong with me_ ,” Javert snapped, seemingly not aware of the fact that he was lashing out.

“I wasn’t saying that there was,” Jean said placatingly, raising his hands, palms out, so as to seem less threatening.

“You didn’t need to say it verbally; it was obvious from the look on your face.”

“Javert, if I’ve hurt you, I sincerely apologize. Would you please eat something? Even if only to soothe my conscience?”

“You and your damn conscience,” Javert grumbled. He prodded the take-out bag, sniffling it. Jean counted it as a win when Javert didn’t immediately recoil, instead reaching into it and taking out the first item his fingers found.

Jean dropped the matter for the time being, resolving to talk to Gavroche about it later.

* * *

Jean found Gavroche in the building which served as a sort of common room for architecture or humanities students. He fell in step beside the younger man. “May I speak with you?” he asked courtly.

Gavroche looked up. His face shone up when he registered the figure beside him. “Sure,” he agreed. “What’s on your mind?”

Jean sighed. “Javert,” he said simply.

The smile fell away. Gavroche glanced around them shiftily. “I think it’s best if we continue this conversation somewhere more private,” he murmured quietly.

“My dorm is empty. Cosette’s with Marius tonight,” Jean offered.

Once in Jean’s room, Jean settled on his bed, motioning for Gavroche to make himself comfortable anywhere he wanted. Gavroche reclined on Cosette’s bed. “What about Javert?” he asked bluntly.

“Does Javert…” Jean began, not knowing how to put his suspicions into words. He took a breath. “Has Javert always had a low appetite?”

Gavroche narrowed his eyes. “No, he’s never had any eating disorders, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said slowly. “Not until—“ Gavroche paused.

“Until?” Jean prompted when Gavroche didn’t elaborate.

“Until our Revelation way back in May,” Gavroche said. His eyes widened. “Do you think—“

“That his reluctance to eat is connected with his old memories?” Jean filled in. He nodded. “If I had to make an educated guess—mind, I’m not a psychology student, nor has the human mind ever been a field of study of mine—then I’d say that Javert is struggling with depression.”

Gavroche closed his eyes. He let out a long breath. “Jesus Christ,” he swore. Jean didn’t reprimand him for his choice of words, in part because he had discovered the futility of such undertakings, and in part because his mind echoed the sentiment exactly. “Six months, and he hasn’t told me. He hasn’t even indicated that something’s wrong with him.”

“If I know him at all, he probably sees it as a weakness, or, at best, an inconvenience to overcome.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Gavroche muttered. “Apparently, I don’t know my brother at all.”

Jean habitually put a hand on Gavroche’s shoulder. Gavroche glanced at the hand, before looking up at Jean. “You’re a very tactile person,” he remarked offhandedly.

Jean stilled. “Is that a problem?” he asked defensively.

Gavroche grinned reflexively. “Not at all. I’m simply surprised that my brother tolerates it. He has never been one for physical contact,” he was quiet for a moment. “What do we do?”

Jean intertwined his fingers in his lap. “There’s no use pretending that everything’s okay, because it’s not. At the same time, I have the feeling that if we confront Javert directly, we will scare him off. He doesn’t exactly have a history of being able to handle obstacles imposed on him by things outside of his control.”

“We need outside help,” Gavroche summarized. An idea occurred to him. “Grantaire.”

“Grantaire?” Jean echoed. “What does he have to do with anything?”

“He is… somewhat familiar with these things,” Gavroche said delicately.

Jean made a sound of understanding.

Gavroche reached into his pocket for his phone. He looked up at Jean. “What’s your room number?”

* * *

 _From: little roche_  
need to speak to u  
I’m in jeans room

 _To: little roche_  
jeans room?  
trying on new pants?

 _From: little roche_  
*jean’s room  
goddammit  
kind of urgent  
((jean says important but not urgent))

 _To: little roche_  
room nr?  
_From: little roche_  
complex 24 apt 601

 _To: little roche_  
apollo thinks its disproportionately hilarious  
*it’s  
#sorrynotsorry  
be there in 5

* * *

Grantaire looked between them. He pushed up his glasses higher up his nose. “What I’ve understood, from your excessively cryptic explanations,” he said, “is that our little inspector has depression. And you don’t know how to approach him—or the subject, for the matter.”

“We don’t even know if he knows,” Gavroche added.

Grantaire ran a hand through his hair. “You have a choice: either you let him know, or you don't. Personally, I don't recommend the latter—from personal experience, I can tell you that avoiding the problem never helps.”

“How does one go about telling someone they're depressed?” Jean sounded helpless as he said it. “It feels unnecessarily cruel.”

“The truly cruel thing is to keep him in the dark,” Grantaire returned shrewdly. “Don't you think he deserves to know? I know I would have liked to know. Maybe I wouldn't have wanted to do anything about it, but it would be _my_ decision. You have no right to make that call.”

Jean blanched, Grantaire's words harsher than intended.

“You're right,” Gavroche said. He sighed. “But how?”

“I'm going to sound like Apollo here, but the crucial thing is to educate yourselves. You can't ask questions or guide him if you don't know anything yourself.

“Second, offer tacit support, but also indicate that he might benefit from some additional medicinal help.”

“I'm working with him on rebuilding his confidence after—” Jean cut himself off. It wasn't his secret to tell, after all.

Grantaire nodded. It was strange to see him so abnormally serious, without his trademark cynicism infusing every second word. “Good. That's actually what I was going to suggest next. But the most important thing is to encourage positivity—yes, hard to imagine with Javert, I realize that—and to listen if and when he needs to talk. God knows I would have given my right hand for having someone like—“ the words were stuck on his tongue. “Anyway. Keep him engaged but don’t encroach on his personal space. If you find a way, you could gently suggest that he talks to a professional if he starts feeling as though something’s wrong for no discernible reason, but not in a way that seems as though you’re forcing him. I think that’s about as much advise as I can give you without knowing further details, which you probably aren’t willing to give.”

Grantaire stood up. Gavroche followed suit. He enveloped Grantaire in a hug. “Thanks, man,” he mumbled into the taller man’s chest.

“No problem,” Grantaire replied. “Keep me updated.”

* * *

Over the course of the next week, Grantaire observed Javert closely. The former inspector’s instincts seemed to tell him that someone was watching him, as he was more skittish than usual, but he wasn’t onto Grantaire yet. Whereas Enjolras was an unstoppable force that tore through the fabric of society with blunt power, Grantaire knew a thing or two about subterfuge, even if he had fallen out of the habit of using it.

Grantaire saw what Jean was trying to accomplish. Jean was always where Javert was, almost as though he wasn't willing to let Javert out of his sight out of fear that something would happen unless he was there to help. Grantaire could see where this was going to end—Javert was eventually going to snap that he wasn't a doll to be coddled, because that's the way Javert reacted to anyone expressing concern for him. At best, he would be angry; at worst, suspicious. Grantaire had seen it happen with both Gavroche and Courfeyrac, who had been paired up as his 'cop buddy’ in the program the professors had the law enforcement students running (one of their trust exercises was that they had to feed each other for one day; that had been particularly entertaining for Les Amis).

Out of their entire group, only Enjolras and Éponine seemed to have reached a mutually beneficial arrangement with Javert. Neither tried to coddle him, but neither did they express outright hostility as Bahorel sometimes did. Their arrangement was a necessary tolerance of each other's presence, along with a few unspoken boundaries. What there was not, was pressure.

Jean’s attempts at providing support to Javert were met with mixed results. Some days, Javert looked almost cheerful—a fact which unsettled Feuilly to the point where he was chewed out by Enjolras for not paying attention at the meeting. Other days, however… Well. Two weeks ago, as he was going to the coffee shop after his lessons, Grantaire saw Javert press Jean up against a wall, using his height to his advantage, fury mixed with something Grantaire was reluctant to examine too closely on his face. Javert’s knuckes were turning white, his jaws clenching and face tightening. Grantaire had been torn between helping Jean or leaving them be. In the end, he decided that it wasn’t his business—and anyway, if Jean truly didn’t want to be in that position, Grantaire had heard that a large part of his strength had carried over from his past life. Jean would be, more or less, fine (if a little bruised in various places).

After that, Grantaire didn’t spot Jean and Javert together until last Friday. They seemed comfortable with each other, Jean having even talked Javert into allowing him to braid his hair (because who else would it be but Jean), even if Javert still seemed perpetually either angry or anxious (or a peculiar mix of the two). At least he was speaking with someone.

Someone slammed a book onto Grantaire's table, causing him to look up startled. Enjolras was looming over the table, the expression on his face similar to that one time, way back when, when Courfeyrac suggested putting the then-nameless Cosette as an item on their agenda as a way of attracting Marius back into the fold. (They had been treated to a furious lecture about the importance of focusing on the important matters because equality and progress were more important than Marius’ happiness, and that the good of the many outweigh the good of the few, and really, Courfeyrac, you should have known better. Grantaire had tuned this out through alcohol., which resulted in another rant, this time on the detrimental effects of alcohol.)

“Who insulted Rousseau this time?” Grantaire said lightly, figuring that it was worth a shot to distract Enjolras from whatever it was that had his French-themed scarf up in a twist.

Enjolras’ glare intensified. “Feuilly switched the names in my contact to 'Sexy’,” he said stiffly.

One of Grantaire's eyebrows went up. “All of them?”

“All of them,” Enjolras fumed. “I'm going to fucking disembowel him and throw his piss-filled head from the fucking Sacré-Cœur.”

Grantaire's other eyebrow joined the first one. “Quite a passionate reaction, Apollo,” be said amiably. ”So you ran all across campus to tell me?”

Enjolras ignored him. ”It’s infuriating because he doesn’t think through his actions or consider the consequences,” Enjolras seethed. ”What if there had been an emergency and I needed to reach someone?”

”That _is_ a problem,” Grantaire agreed, ”but I doubt Feuilly meant any harm.”

”It _doesn’t matter_ ,” Enjolras growled. Grantaire chalked it up to mid-term stress, which, it seemed, not even the great Apollo was above.

Huh. So he _was_ human after all.

”Is there anything between Jean and Javert?” Enjolras asked abruptly. He sat down on the chair on Grantaire’s left.

Grantaire grinned. ”Finally noticed, have you?”

Enjolras glowered balefully. "is there some kind of a secret signal people use to inform outsiders that they're in love that I keep somehow missing?”

”Not really in itself, no,” Grantaire admitted. ”But there _is_ a certain tension between people who have strong feelings for each other, and they tend to spend a lot of time together. Then, there are physiological effects,” he went on uncomfortably, glaringly aware of the blatant _physiological effect_ Enjolras had on him. Grantaire shifted in his seat, focusing on anything but the man in front of him because this _wasn’t helping goddammit_.

Enjolras frowned. ”Physiological effects? I don't—” he began. His eyes narrowed as he zeroed in on Grantaire’s rigid posture. He averted his eyes, a faint blush on his face. ”Never mind.”

”It doesn’t matter,” Grantaire stressed, tapping a pen against the tabletop—a nervous tick of his. ”Sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable.”

Enjolras did indeed look like the startling revelation made him want to hide out in his dorm room with Spock and not come out until Judgement Day. He swallowed, then shook his head. ”Don’t mind me. It’s just that—”

”You’re uncomfortable with the whole sex package,” Grantaire filled in; he lifted the pen, examining it, steadily avoiding Enjolras’ eyes, ”which includes people getting aroused by you. I know. It’s fine. No touching.”

”That’s—that’s good to hear,” Enjolras said stiffly. ”You were saying about Jean and Javert?”

”Mind, I’m partially under a confidentiality clause,” Grantaire said, relieved for the subject change, however brusque. ”Still, I can tell you that Jean’s got a _special interest_ in Javert.”

”Special interest,” Enjolras said slowly, ”as in a romantic one?” he asked to ascertain.

 _Yes, you adorable dork,_ Grantaire very distinctly did not say. ”Methinks so,” he confirmed, looking up, his mouth twisting up in something resembling a smile.

It was Enjolras’ turn to stare into the table as though it held the answer to every question in the universe. Grantaire glanced around the library, glaring at the three students who were openly checking Enjolras out. They averted their eyes, though not without responding with a glower of their own.

”Right! I nearly forgot,” Grantaire started suddenly. He dug through his satchel, searching for something, then pulled out a ring box. It was a bland, nondescript ring box, but unmistakablya a ring box. Enjolras eyed it as though it would close the space between him and Grantaire and bite him. Grantaire's lips curled, seeing his apprehension. "Don't worry; I'm not proposing," he assured him hurriedly. "I just—I saw these in a shop the other day, and thought of you."

Inside the box were twin black rings. Grantaire offered the box to Enjolras, who hesitantly pulled out one of the rings. He tried it on, then was baffled when it fit him perfectly. He glanced up at Grantaire questioningly. Grantaire bit his lower lip. "I've taken the liberty of finding out your ring size a few months ago, just in case," he said vaguely.

Enjolras told himself that he shouldn't find it as adorable as he did. He put the other ring on.

“I really hope I haven’t overstepped anything,” Grantaire went on. “I swear, Apollo, I don’t mean this as a come-on, or that you have to return anything or—“

“Relax, R,” Enjolras cut him off. Enjolras was looking at him with fondness. _Fondness_. “They’re wonderful. Thank you,” Enjolras’ grateful voice wasn’t that much different from his usual, demanding voice, but Grantaire found that he could treasure the minuscule differences anyway. Enjolras’ hand covered Grantiare’s. He intertwined his fingers with Grantaire’s.

Time always seemed to simultaneously slow down and speed up whenever Enjolras was involved. This was one of these moments. Grantaire saw everything as though it moved in slow motion, at the same time as time seemed to move faster than ever. It was distracting.

Grantaire didn’t realize that he had been holding his breath until Enjolras released his hand.

They were silent for a moment; the silence was a compassionate one. Grantaire went back to flipping through his books, occasionally making a note whenever he found something interesting. He snickered at a paragraph. At Enjolras’ inquiring look, he grinned. ” _By 1800, the Federalist party was split. clearing the way to the presidency for the Democratic-Republicans. Two men ran for the party nomination: Thomas Jefferson and Aaron Burr. Each received an equal number of votes in the electoral college, which meant that the Federalist-dominated House of Representatives was required to choose a president from between the two. It took 35 ballots, but Jefferson finally won. Alexander Hamilton swallowed hard and campaigned for Jefferson, with whom he disagreed on most issues and whom he personally disliked, because he believed Burr to be 'a most unfit and dangerous man'. Burr later proved Hamilton right by killing him,_ ” he read, tracing the words

Enjolras frowned. ”Why are you reading American history?” he questioned.

Grantaire shrugged. ”It’s a part of our history block. Educating yourself about the history of one of the leading countries in the world. Think of it as the history of democracy,” Grantaire said when Enjolras opened his mouth to argue.

Bookmarking the page, Enjolras closed the book, tracing the indented letters on the cover. ” _The Historical Atlas of the American Revolution_ ,” he read out loud. ”I know it’s part of law, but I wasn’t aware that art studebnts were likewise required to take it.”

”I suppose that’s university for you.”

Enjolras pocketed the ring box. He twisted the ring on his left hand absentminedly. Grantaire busied himself with rubbing his tattoos.

”I need to go. I’m supposed to be meeting with Combeferre in twenty minutes,” Enjolras said. He made to leave.

”Apollo?” Grantaire called. ”Do me a favour?”

Enjolras’ lips thinned. ”If it in any way involves drugs or changing my stance thereon, then the answer is no,” he said resolutely.

”I wish,” Grantaire muttered, though something within him warmed at the thought of Enjolras _caring_ about him enough to persist in his crusade to get Grantaire to stop taking his semi-regular dosage of heroin. ”No, what I was going to ask you was, if you happen to meet Javert, could you make sure he eats something? Even if it’s an apple.”

Enjolras nodded with determination. When it came to others’ health, he had made it one of his personal goals to make sure that they stayed that way; it being a bizarre form of atonement for the role he had thought himself play in their deaths, Enjolras didn’t want to be the cause of a single other demise.

A pity, only, that this crusade did not extend to Enjolras himself.

* * *

 

> **_Taxation—a necessity?_ **
> 
> _”(…) Progressive tax policies have always been based on the idea that wealthy individuals should pay more, in proportion to their means. A specific question within this idea is whether they should pay more specifically in order to reduce inequality and lift-up poorer classes._
> 
> _Thesis: Narrowing the gap between rich and poor is more important than overall economic growth._
> 
> _Argument: Social problems such as drug use, disease spread, and domestic violence increase proportionately with the inflation of the gap between classes. Furthermore, it is worth noting that, in a society with a considerable societal gap, people are forced to demean themselves in order to sustain their existence._
> 
> _Counterargument: Taking away money diminishes the motivation to make money. Moreover, we ought not to aim at absolute equality but at equal opportunity._
> 
> _However: Poverty prevents equal opportunity._
> 
> _For example, if people did not evade paying tax, we, as a country, would be able to afford to deal with the various social problems previously mentioned. What kind of society focuses on persecuting the victims while tacitly endorsing the criminals?_
> 
> _We need to ask ourselves: do we change our behaviour, thereby changing the very structure of the human network spanning all around the globe—or do we want to remain complicit in these clandestine injustices?”_

* * *

The addition of Cosette and Jean caused quite an uproar, not the least because it turned out that Javert wasn’t the only person with unfinished business when it came to the man.

Case in point: Marius.

“It was you, incidentally,” Jean was telling Marius at one of the meetings where they didn’t so much plan any protests or future reforms as simply talk; creating this division between the different kinds of meetings was the only way to get Jean and Javert to attend, since Javert still steadfastly refused to participate in any kind of social reform, falling back on citing the authority of the law as the reason, while Jean, when approached by Enjolras with an invitation, smiled softly and said that he trusted in that his fellow humans would progress by themselves, without needing his input, “which caused me to book tickets to England.”

“So essentially, what you're saying,” Musichetta said slowly, a her lips drawing up into a smirk, “is that, in a way, Marius brought on his own doom and his own success?” she shook her head. “Mon chou, you are a walking human disaster.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying for _ages_ ,” Courfeyrac chimed in from where he was seemingly enraptured in his phone, probably texting Feuilly, who was doing last-minute research at the library, judging by the small smile curling his lips. “But nobody listens to me.”

“And with good reason,” Combeferre said.

Courfeyrac grimaced in jest. “Aren’t you supposed to be on _my_ side, mon chéri?”

“When it doesn’t conflict with common sense, yes.”

“As sickeningly sweet as you are,” Éponine interrupted, “could you please tone down the PDA? It’s making _some of us_ uncomfortable.”

Exhibit B: Éponine.

“I didn’t have the opportunity to say it before,” Jean told Éponine, glancing briefly at Javert, as if it was Javert’s fault—which it was, from a certain point of view. “But I’d like to thank you for keeping your father and the Patron-Minette away. I didn’t realize until much later that it had been you.”

“It was nothing,” Éponine waved it away. “’Sides, I didn’t do it for _you_ ,” she added, peering at Marius and Cosette, the former of whom was massaging the latter’s hands.

Jean followed her eyes. His mouth opened slightly. “I see,” he murmured. He did not elaborate.

* * *

Marius waited with apologizing profusely to Jean about the way he had treated him until he caught Jean alone—which was quite an accomplishment, what with Jean's newfound effort to accompany Javert everywhere he went. He had told Cosette everything, both in their past life and after they had met in this one, about her father and about the way Marius had treated him, but there was still an impulse in him that didn’t want Cosette—or anyone else, for that matter—to be present at his conversation with Jean, especially since he didn’t know what kind of a response he’d get.

Marius recalled the last moments he had with Jean Valjean.

 _It was you he needed_ , the physician had told Cosette and Marius. _Too late_ , he added in a whisper.

After his father's death—for Jean Valjean was, in truth, his father as much as Colonel Pontmercy—Marius had gone against his promise to M. Valjean and told Cosette the truth: the entire truth, omitting nothing. She was strong and could take it; furthermore, and more importantly, she _deserved_ the truth, after so many years of secrecy.

Cosette didn’t interrupt him as he spoke of her father’s life, hitherto unknown to her. She also didn’t speak once he had finished, visibly mulling over the answers she had at last been given to the questions she had been asking most of her life. “Father was the very personification of ‘ascetic’,” Marius said at last.

This coaxed a smile out of Cosette. “He truly was,” she agreed. She was silent for a moment. “I don’t remember much of my childhood before meeting papa,” she eventually said. “He seemed to have always been there, as if dropped by Heaven above. He argued that he wasn’t a saint—“

“But he was,” Marius finished in harmony, as if reading Cosette’s mind.

“Exactly. He gave alms to the poor, and he was such a humble person—even when having that six hundred thousand francs, he lived as though he were a pauper, while sparing no coin for my needs.”

This, in part, brought Marius to where he was now: in front of Jean, whom he had, in a rare moment of luck, found without Javert at his side. (Which reminded Marius: he had matters to settle with Javert as well.)

“Yes?” Jean opened the library door for Marius, beckoning him in. He closed the door behind them. The library, Marius noted, was empty apart from the librarian in section 7-D, who was more invested in fifteenth century feudal politics than was probably healthy.

This was as good a moment as Marius was going to get. “I am so terribly sorry, m’sieur,” the words flew out of Marius’ mouth at a speed which astounded even Marius himself, “for banishing you from our house—the house that ought to have been yours as well, no matter your past,” Marius all but babbled, his voice drenched in emotions of all kinds: grief, regret, anger at himself, anger at destiny, and finally, _hope_.

“Think nothing of it,” Jean smiled, and if the smile was a little wistful, well. Neither of them pointed it out. “Think only of the future.”

“You are too good, father,” Marius continued. “Truly, how I could ever have thought you a wicked man, I do not understand.”

Jean exhaled. “Call me Jean, Marius,” he advised. “It sounds odd if you continue to call me father. I’ve already persuaded Cosette to do the same,” he coaxed.

Marius looked at Jean uncertainly. The older man nodded almost imperceptibly. “Well,” Marius hesitated. “If you say so. _Jean_ ,” he said, trying out the sound of the name as one would a foreign dish.

“I do,” Jean said with the air of someone who was not used to being obeyed.

Another wave of guilt crashed into Marius because he was partially the cause of Jean’s lack of confidence. Jean was supposed to be his _family_ , his to love and to cherish, and Marius did the opposite. Marius smothered it.

A slightly awkward silence ensued as Jean waited for Marius to respond, while Marius waited for Jean to continue.

“How are things with Javert?” Marius said when it became clear that Jean had a lot more patience than he did. _He would_ , a voice in Marius’ head said. _He waited for_ nineteen _years._

 _Nobody asked you,_ Marius silenced that voice.

Jean smiled. “You know what? I think things are improving. It’s a slow progress, but it’s progress nonetheless.”

* * *

Enjolras scowled down at the pipeline. He hadn't expected to come back to his dormitory after an exhausting day, only to find that his and Combeferre's rooms have been flooded with water. His search for the landlord had proved only partially fruitful—Enjolras _did_ track him down, but the man's assurances have been the very definition of evasive.

With a growl, he grabbed his phone, throwing together some basic necessities into his backpack. His deft fingers found Grantaire's contact.

 _To: R_  
May I sleep over in your dormitory?

Grantaire replied almost immediately.

 _From: R_  
sure  
what's going on?

 _To: R_  
Our pipe exploded, and our apartment is now more of a habitat for a whale hunchback than for a human.

 _From: R_  
open an aquarium

 _To: R  
_ And where, pray tell, would I sleep?

The reply came instantaneously, almost as if Grantaire sent it off on an impulse.

 _From: R  
_ my bed has room for two

 _To: R  
_ I sincerely hope that this isn't yet a very elaborate seductive ploy. You should know me better by now.

There was a long moment before Enjolras' phone pinged.

 _From: R_  
apollo, my sun and stars  
I lack the words to describe my love for you  
but quite frankly you wouldn't know a seductive ploy if it introduced itself to you

 _To: R_  
I am going to take that as the compliment you probably did not intend.  
I will be at your dorm in one hour.

* * *

Grantaire felt like hitting himself. Why had he agreed to this again? Oh, _right_ —because he was still head over heels for Enjolras and seemed to be unable to refuse him anything, for all the outward derision he exuded.

Grantaire let out a deep breath. He fingered one of his buttons on his shirt, anxiety in the back of his mind. Theoretically, he knew that he had nothing to fear, that Enjolras already _knew_ that Grantaire tended to relinquish control of his body, however involuntarily, whenever Enjolras was involved; despite knowing this, Enjolras was willing to share a bed with him—what's more, Enjolras was the one to suggest it. Still, it made Grantaire vaguely nauseous to consider the possibility that he might somehow intrude on Enjolras' much-valued privacy.

A knock interrupted his thoughts. Grantaire took a deep breath, then opened the door. On the other side stood Enjolras, a bag clutched in his hand and his laptop bag slung over his shoulder. "R," he greeted. "I trust you haven't changed your mind?"

"I wouldn't dare, Apollo," Grantaire forced a smirk onto his face.

He reached for Enjolras' bag. Their fingers brushed briefly, and Grantaire flinched. Enjolras' eyes crinkled. "What's wrong?"

Any lingering doubts in Grantaire's mind disintegrated at hearing the concern in Enjolras' voice.

"Nothing," he said. "Come in. Make yourself at home."

Enjolras stared at Grantaire for another moment, eyes scrutinizing, before abruptly stepping around Grantaire and into the room. He glanced around, taking in the room despite having been here countless times.

“It’s quiet,” he remarked.

Grantaire scoffed. “What did you expect? Hard rock blasting out of the loudspeakers I don’t even own?”

“Something in that direction,” Enjolras admitted, putting down his laptop bag on top of Grantaire’s desk—though the desktop itself hasn’t been visible for months, cluttered as it was with various projects Grantaire had started but abandoned halfway through. “Though not so much hard rock as classical music.”

“I do like Mendelssohn,” Grantaire told Enjolras, “but not _that_ much.” He closed the door, putting Enjolras’ bag down by the bed. “Okay, so you get the bed.”

It turned out that Enjolras was not, in fact, okay with Grantaire’s plan, which had been that Enjolras would take the bed while Grantaire would take the couch. The plan made a lot of sense to Grantaire, because it wasn’t as if Grantaire would get much sleep anyway, not with Enjolras so close. Of course, said plan went awry as soon as Grantaire shared it with Enjolras. The blond’s eyes flashed with a peculiar indignation, the kind that caused even Courfeyrac to run for the hills, and informed Grantaire in no uncertain terms that since he was the guest and therefore ‘intruding’ on Grantaire’s privacy—“You’re not intruding, Apollo. I have _explicitly invited you_.”—it was only fitting that he took the couch. This made Grantaire feel like an awful host; he insisted that Enjolras really should take the bed.

The compromise they had ultimately reached was that they would both share Grantaire's bed. It was a less than ideal solution, especially to Grantaire, but, as Enjolras quoted when Grantaire protested, "equality requires compromise, because, at its foundation, equality was about realizing that the other person's happiness was worth just as much as one's own and had just as much right to be fulfilled".

"Of course," Enjolras then went on, as if the artist was still on the same page as him; in all honesty, Grantaire wasn't entirely certain if they were still in the same book, "we shouldn't compromise our ideals, beliefs, or morals, political or otherwise, but I hardly think a compromise regarding sleeping arrangements is going to compromise any of that.” Enjolras seemed to have forgotten that he wasn’t addressing a crowd that needed to be convinced.

“Spare me the idealistic chit-chat,” Grantaire said with an eye-roll. “I know for a fact that you’ve got a project for French lit to finish. A little bird said so.”

Enjolras scrunched up his nose. “Bossuet?” he asked, taking out his laptop and settling on the far side of Grantaire’s bed.

“I never reveal my sources,” Grantaire smirked. “I’m not _that_ bad an investigator.”

“Éponine,” Enjolras guessed.

“Not telling, mon ange.”

“It was Éponine, wasn’t it?” Enjolras asked rhetorically, ignoring the endearment.

As Enjolras typed away on his laptop at a speed that made Grantaire fear for the laptop, Grantaire went to the bathroom. He took out a pack. He stared at it, not opening it. He didn’t need to read the text to know what it said on the package. _Cymbalta™ duloxetine HCl—7 capsules—60 mg_.

He didn’t like taking his meds. They made him slower, _sluggier_. They killed his creativity. They made him _useless_ , and he had made a promise, back when he first remembered his previous life, to never be as useless as he was to his friends. The Grantaire of 1832 had amounted to nothing, and left nothing behind. The Grantaire of 2000 needed to be different, needed to change. Besides, antidepressants tended to amplify the effects of heroin, and Grantaire knew where the line of too much went. He had once, in a moment of recklessness, ventured awfully close to it. Never again. He realized the consequences all too well. Grantaire wouldn’t be the one to suffer if he overdosed; his death would affect everybody but him. His friends would be devastated. Courfeyrac would be devastated. _Enjolras_ would be devastated. It wasn’t worth it, especially not when he had Enjolras back in his life.

With a headshake, Grantaire put the unopened box back from whence he had taken it. He knew that it wasn’t the smartest choice he had ever made, but it wasn’t the dumbest, either, which was kind of comforting, in a bizarre way.

He stepped out of the room. The corners of his lips quirked up into a smile when he saw that Enjolras was exactly the way he had left him. He hadn’t moved but for the flashes his fingers made as they danced across the keyboard. He practically radiated intensity.

“The laptop isn’t going to run away,” Grantaire said, leaning against the doorway. “You aren’t going to die if you don’t finish this by midnight.” Grantaire knew that someone had to occasionally remind Enjolras that he was only human, because he was a tendency to work himself into the ground. “You have plenty of time, Apollo.”

Enjolras didn’t acknowledge him with more than a slight head tilt. Grantaire sighed. Right. Enjolras. Workaholic. The guy he had literally died for. How was this a good idea again?

* * *

Sharing a bed with Enjolras wasn’t as terrifyingly paralyzing as Grantaire had feared. There was no bumping foreheads, no stolen covers (mostly because Enjolras had brought his own), and no unwanted touching, since Grantaire’s bed was large enough for the two of them to be able to sleep comfortably without having to squeeze.

It was, however, just as intoxicating as Grantaire had secretly hoped. Enjolras’ presence had that effect on him. It made him hyperaware of every minute reaction of his own body. Being so tantalizingly close to Enjolras was intoxicating. It was a problem, Grantaire reflected, because Enjolras was still operating on the 19th century norms, when it had not been unusual to platonically offer other men a place in their bed, whereas the 21st century would raise its eyebrow and say something akin to ‘no homo’ or ‘but you’re not, like, gay or anything right’. The gesture was both sweet and infuriating.

(Actually, that was a spot-on summary of the whole of Enjolras.)

Grantaire quickly changed into his pyjamas. He didn’t usually use it, preferring to sleep in a T-shirt and briefs, but he didn’t trust his body not to have any _inappropriate reactions_ in Enjolras’ presence.

That done, he regarded Enjolras critically. "If you don't quit soon, I'm going to have to intervene," he commented lightly.

“I’ll only be a sec,” Enjolras said absentmindedly.

“I’ve heard that one before,” Grantaire said. He stepped forward and closed Enjolras’ computer, ignoring his shouts of indignation. He danced out of Enjolras’ reach when he tried to grab it. “You’ll have time later, and I’ve heard from a certain gorgeous equal rights activist that sleep is actually good for you. Imagine that,” he grinned.

Enjolras frowned. “R—“ he spoke sternly, but was interrupted by Grantaire.

“Don’t ‘R’ me,” he commanded. “Sleep.”

Enjolras stood up, probably to continue arguing with Grantaire from a higher position, but Grantaire took advantage of that and guided him to bed with one smooth move. “Pyjamas, then bed.”

Enjolras pursed his lips. “I don’t sleep in pyjamas.”

Well. That would be a problem.

Grantaire swallowed, then rubbed his temples. “Then change into whatever you normally sleep in.”

Enjolras blinked. “Would you be more comfortable if I slept in a pyjamas?” he asked.

“It’s not about what’s making me more comfortable—“

“It is,” Enjolras insisted. “I am your guest, and I would be a terrible guest indeed if I made my host uncomfortable.”

“I’ll be fine,” Grantaire waved off Enjolras’ concerns. “Just—do your thing. And no, you’re not getting your laptop back tonight, so you might as well go to sleep,” he continued when he saw Enjolras eyeing the computer contemplatively.

Enjolras narrowed his eyes. “That’s a truly low move.”

“Not as low as your energy levels will be if you don’t sleep.”

 _Honestly_ , making sure Enjolras took care of himself was like wrestling a toddler, except that, in this analogy, said toddler didn’t have to obey him since Grantaire didn’t technically have control over him, and supported its refusal with persuasive arguments. Grantaire would have had an easier time negotiating with a tiger.

Still, four attempts to retrieve the laptop later, Enjolras gave in to Grantaire’s demands.

_Grantaire 1, Enjolras 0._

* * *

The morning wasn’t as fun for Grantaire. Mornings generally weren’t much fun for him, but this one was worse for one particular reason: Enjolras. Or, more accurately, the effects Enjolras, whose limbs had sometime during the night become entangled with Grantaire’s, had on him. Grantaire resisted an urge to kiss Enjolras’ forehead. At the same time, as he regained consciousness, he became conscious of an all too familiar nuisance, which, _fuck._

Furthermore, Grantaire needed to go to the bathroom. There were two problems with that idea; one: his nether regions still had other plans—which, thanks to two: one of Enjolras' arms wrapped around his around his waist, was quickly turning into a decidedly different problem. The second problem also made it more difficult to extricate himself from the tangle that were the covers and various limbs in his bed.

Enjolras twitched when Grantaire tried to move. He scrunched up his nose. "R?" he asked, a clear question in his voice.

"Need to use the bathroom," Grantaire replied, trying to ignore the problem. He hated being ruled by something as basic as his physiology, _hated_ having his judgement clouded by his dick. He sometimes envied Enjolras for being above these kinds of things. “There’s no need to stress.”

Enjolras murmured something into his pillow, then rolled around to his other side, clutching the covers in one of his fists. His hair was spread around his head like a halo; Grantaire was reminded of the day when Enjolras showed up dressed in white, looking like the spitting image of Gabriel the archangel in all his glory. Grantaire brushed away a few locks from Enjolras’ face, then headed for the bathroom.

Once in his bathroom, Grantaire slouched against the wall. He closed his eyes. This was going to be harder than he had thought—pun _definitely intended_ because puns were the only appropriate reaction at five in the morning.

* * *

Enjolras and Grantaire got through the next three days without any major incidents, as Grantaire had feared. He even managed to tear Enjolras away for long enough to take him out to _Chez Napoléon_ despite Enjolras’ loud complaints as to its name.

Over the three days, Grantaire had learned one rather curious thing about Enjolras. Actually, in the interest of accuracy, he learned several things, but they all amounted to one general conclusion: Enjolras was like a cat. He has a tendency to stretch out and lay across Grantaire's bed, effortlessly elegant, blinking in confusion whenever Grantaire did something he had not expected. Enjolras, Grantaire reflected, had the air of someone who was not fully conscious of their own beauty, nor of the effects it had on others. The first time it happened, on that first morning, Grantaire had been decidedly unprepared for the sheer level of innocence focused solely on him.

On Sunday, Grantaire woke up earlier than Enjolras (which wasn’t particularly hard, considering that, once Enjolras fell asleep, he slept like a hybrid between a sloth and an exhausted kitten). He decided to surprise Enjolras by swinging by the coffee shop and picking up breakfast. One of the waiters there had given him a standing discount on everything, so yes, Enjolras, there _were_ advantages to flirting and _no,_ this wasn’t ‘taking advantage of inherited characteristics that aren’t possessed by the majority of the population’. It had been easy for Enjolras to say. He didn’t care about looks, and had, in any case, been stunningly handsome in both lifetimes. Grantaire hadn’t, not in the past, and he was damned if he wasn’t going to take advantage of it.

“One espresso, two shots, no milk, no sugar, and one frappucino with extra cream,” he said, smiling winningly at the waiter, currently working behind the register. “And two of those, please,” he pointed at the pastries.

The light from the lamp gleamed in the cashier’s red hair. Grantare pretended to linger on it. Enjolras may not be an expert on flirting, but Grantaire was. He’s had more than enough practice, after all. The waiter picked out two of the largest breads, then pushed the bag at Grantaire. Leaning forward, posture relaxed, he smiled. “Anything else?” he said flirtingly.

“Not today, I’m afraid,” Grantaire returned in kind, fully intending to never follow through on the implied promise. Whatever this redhead had to offer, Enjolras was better _,_ in every single aspect. “How much do I owe you?”

The cashier straightened up, but the grin didn’t slip off his face. “7,00 €,” he rattled off.

Grantaire paid without a word, giving the redhead another smile before leaving.

* * *

Enjolras stared at the baked goods owlishly. He absentmindedly accepted the coffee, drinking half of it in one go. "What is this?" he peered at the pastries.

"Pain au chocolat," Grantaire informed him with a grin, handing Enjolras his scarf.

Enjolras accepted it silently. "Pain au chocolat?" he echoed.

"No pain au chocolat, no gain au chocolat,” Grantaire said with a smirk.

Enjolras shook his head. "You're impossible," he said affectionately. He sat up straighter in the bed, leaning his back against the bed.

"I prefer to think of myself as unique," Grantaire shot back. He pressed one of the pains au chocolat into Enjolras’ hands, trying not to think about Enjolras’ fingers. When that failed, he instead focused on the black rings Enjolras had taken to wearing at all times, having grown inexplicably fond of them.

“Are you okay?” Enjolras' voice cut into Grantaire's thoughts.

 _No._ “Yes,” Grantaire replied, taking a bite out of his own pastry. Enjolras was light and fury, not unlike the original god Apollo. Come too close, and you get burnt.

Then again, weren’t the risks half of the fun of playing with fire?

* * *

Cosette finally cornered Javert in early December. It was actually quite impressive, the way in which he managed to avoid a one-on-one meeting with her since October.

She spotted him in the library, browsing the section about the history of judicial law. He was skimming the titles with his fingers, almost reverently.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she remarked to his back.

He started, swirling quicker than she’d thought possible. “I haven’t—“ he began.

Cosette tsked. “Don’t lie to me, Javert,” she reprimanded, not unlike the way a mother would her misbehaving child. Javert stiffened. “I’ve grown up around papa— _Jean_ ,” she amended. “He is easily the hardest person to read you’ll ever meet. If you know how to read him, you know how to read anyone.”

Javert didn’t speak.

“Javert—“ Cosette reached out to put a hand on his forearm. He pulled away.

“I’ve killed your mother,” he said abruptly. “I’ve killed Fantine.”

Cosette frowned. “As far as I’ve been informed,” she said slowly, “she died of tuberculosis. Unless you were the one who infected her, I don’t see the problem.”

“That may be the underlying cause,” Javert acknowledged, “but I was the reason why she died before speaking with you one last time. As Valj—Jean has informed me on numerous occasions, I have frightened her to such an extent, and with such cruelty, that she died before the tuberculosis would have killed her. Had I shown a little compassion, she would have lived a while longer. You might have known a mother,” he finished awkwardly.

Cosette tilted her head. “I highly doubt that I would have remembered all that much. I was eight, inspector. I don’t remember much of my life prior to being, as I have been told by Marius, rescued from the Thénardiers by Jean—only vague flashes here and there—and I probably would not have remembered my mother either.

“But consider this, Javert: isn’t it better that I didn’t meet my mother, rather than to meet her for a mere moment, only to be torn from her the next moment by the inevitable march of Death?” Cosette continued. “I would have either been heartbroken or disappointed, in all probability both. I’m not saying that your actions were morally justifiable, but I am saying that things worked out either way. After all, here we are, aren’t we?” Cosette smiled, her teeth as white as snow. “Besides, I have a feeling that my mother is in a better place now, and I’ve learned to trust my hunches.”

“You are right,” Javert nodded. “It was not morally justifiable, and for that, I will never be able to repent.”

Cosette shook her head. “Have you heard nothing of what I’ve just said?” she sighed. “Let’s put it this way: do you regret it?”

“Of course!” Javert sounded offended by the fact that she even had to ask.

“Then that’s all that matters, in my mind. I did not know my mother, and while I know that she loved me more than anything, I don’t feel such love towards her as I do towards Jean.”

“But—“ Javert began.

“That sounds perfect,” Cosette beamed.

“May I just say that—“

“Glad we had this talk,” Cosette said brightly. She then pressed something into Javert’s open palm. She turned to leave, then paused. “The book you’re looking for is this one,” she pointed at a little red book. Kempin’s _Legal History: Law and Social Change_. It may be old, but it’s just better than anything else out there. Very thorough, too.”

She left as suddenly as she had arrived, followed out by Javert’s inquisitive eyes.

* * *

“You owe me two guns.”

Marius looked up. Javert was standing over him, his tall figure casting a shadow over his books. He sighed, pushing the thick book he had been studying away from him. Marius leaned back in his chair. “Would you like me to replace them for you?” he proposed, resignation in his voice.

Javert shook his head. “No. But I do know what you _can_ do.”

* * *

“—which leads me to the proposal: we ought to—“ Enjolras was telling Combeferre when he heard footsteps behind him.

“I heard your speech,” said a voice from behind Enjolras, causing him to up sharply. There was a brunet standing alone, a satchel slung over his shoulder, and a wide smile on his face.

Enjolras tilted his head. “Are you a proponent of improving the quality of the education in our public schools?" he said, his tone implying that anything but an immediate 'yes' would be a failure of character.

The brunet inclined his head. “Indeed I am. Gilbert du Motier, by the way,” the brunet introduced himself, offering his hand to the younger man. “Sociology, with a polisci minor.”

Enjolras frowned. “The Marquis de Lafayette?” he asked, not quite able to hide the surprise in his voice.

Gilbert rolled his eyes. “No, that's not me, that's my _ancestor_. Well,” he drawled, “I _do_ technically hold the title of marquis, but who the hell uses it these days?”

“Pardon me,” Enjolras said, still not introducing himself. “I had thought you another. Someone I had greatly admired in the past.”

“Something something something something Lafayette?” Gilbert guessed, still grinning. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Combeferre stepped forward, extending his hand. “Combeferre Maillard,” he said. “Our fierce leader here is Enjolras Rousseau.”

Enjolras scrunched his nose when Combeferre introduced him. “What are you doing here?” he turned back to Gilbert.

Gilbert smiled. “Studying, just like you. I’m planning on participating in the exchange with Columbia program next year, though.”

“I’m actually planning on an exchange with Harvard,” Combeferre mentioned. “They have several courses I’m very interested in taking.”

“Why didn’t you, then?” Gilbert genuinely wanted to know.

Combeferre smiled. “I couldn’t very well abandon my friend, especially not when this school is clearly superior in almost every aspect,” he said proudly.

Gilbert peered at Enjolras. He smirked. “I do agree in that such beauty shouldn’t be left alone,” he purred.

Enjolras stiffened. Combeferre put an arm around his shoulders, eyes crinkling in concern. He then turned back to Gilbert. “He’s not interested,” he informed the other man.

“He,” Enjolras shook off Combeferre’s hand, despite still looking two words away from wrapping himself up in the closest French flag and not coming out until New Year, “is also able to speak for himself. Aromantic asexual,” he said by ways of explanation.

Gilbert’s smile didn’t disappear completely, but it changed into something softer, less edgy. “I’m really sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” he apologized. “I didn’t mean—“

“I know,” Enjolras interrupted, his voice harsh. He seemed to realize that, because when he continued, it was gentler. “I’m sorry. I just—I don’t deal well with relationships.”

Gilbert gave a short laugh. “I can see that,” he remarked. “Well, I’ve got to dash—Professor Aubry will have my hide if I’m late—but wait—“ he searched his satchel for a pen and a notepad, before scribbling a number on the front page. Ripping it out, he pressed it into Enjolras’ hand. “Here’s my phone number. Call me if you need anything. Or even if you just want to talk,” he flashed them another grin before taking off across the campus.

Enjolras and Combeferre watched his departure.

“Have I just hallucinated this whole thing,” Combeferre said slowly, “or have you managed to befriend the Marquis de Lafayette?”

“You know,” Enjolras replied in much the same voice, “I think you might be right.”

* * *

The first punch, he had expected. The second, not so much.

“You assaulted me,” Javert narrowed his eyes. “Twice.”

Fantine shrugged. “You killed me, then persecuted the guardian of my daughter until your death. I think we’re equal now, _inspector_.”

Javert pressed his sleeve to his nose, trying to stem the blood flow. “I do suppose I deserved it,” he conceded.

Fantine watched him with an inscrutable expression on her face. “Now,” she said, voice businesslike, “you said something about my daughter?”

* * *

“Jean, you're wasted on law,” Courfeyrac said, watching Jean lift the bookshelf as though it weighed no more than a few kilos. “You should have studied sports or something.”

“I will be able to do more good as a lawyer,” Jean grunted.

“You could be both,” Feuilly suggested. “Like, Enjolras has a double major.”

“Polisci is my _minor_ ,” Enjolras cut in, the majority of his focus still on the essay he was furiously typing.

“Whatever,” Feuilly waved him off. He turned back to Jean. “You could be, like, Daredevil. A lawyer ninja.”

“I prefer to remain on the right side of the law this time,” Jean said. “Also, where do you want me to put it?”

Feuilly indicated the spot. Courfeyrac stifled a grin when he heard a string of Polish curses as the bookshelf was dropped, presumably, on Feuilly’s foot. Something about a curve? Courfeyac wasn’t entirely sure, and he definitely wasn’t about to investigate. Feuilly could be really sweet, or he could be _vicious_ , and Courfeyrac pitied anyone who caught him in the latter mood.

Stepping away from the unfolding disaster, Courfeyrac stepped over to Enjolras. “Whatcha working on?” he asked idly.

Enjolras shot him a look that Courfeyrac privately thought was more suited aimed at a dog owner who got poop all over your expensive business suit—meaning Jacques Chirac, if one asked Enjolras—and said, “An article describing the benefits of legalizing euthanasia.”

“Ah,” Courfeyrac said shortly. “Cool.”

He left Enjolras to his virtual crusade, and sat down at Cosette and Marius’ corner, letting himself be drawn into their discussion. A ruckus at the door soon grabbed their attention, and Courfeyrac turned to look in the direction of the sound. Javert came stumbling in—he literally stumbled in, complete with almost falling on That One Step everyone knew to avoid.

Silence fell as everyone watched a young woman enter behind Javert, closing the door. Even Enjolras looked up from his most recent masterpiece to survey the pair.

“Javert,” Jean stepped up to Javert, pushing up his head to take a good look at him. He blanched when he saw the blood still dripping from Javert’s nose. He pushed away Javert’s sleeve and pressed his handkerchief to the bleeding nose. “You’re hurt. What happened?”

“That would be me,” the redhead behind him announced to the room at large.

Enjolras tensed up. “And you are…?” he trailed off.

“Fantine Aubry. No relation to the professor,” she added.

In the back, there was a sharp intake of breath. As one, Les Amis turned to look at the corner which Courfeyrac was occupying with Marius and Cosette, the latter of which was the source of the sound.

“Fantine?” she echoed, standing up. She approached Fantine. “My name’s Cosette. I was your daughter.”

Fantine shuddered. Her mouth moved, as if trying to form words but not succeeding in articulating them. “Cosette?” she finally uttered.

Theoretically, she had known, coming here, that she would meet her erstwhile daughter—after all, this was the whole point of this meeting—but it still came as a shock to finally be standing face-to-face with her.

Cosette stepped up to Fantine. She stared at her for a long moment before suddenly throwing her arms around the other woman and drawing her into a hug. “Hello, mother,” she said into Fantine’s jacket.

Gently, as if so as not to frighten a tiny animal, Fantine responded by wrapping her arms around Cosette. “I have missed you, Cosette.”

Meanwhile, Joly peered at Javert’s nose. “The good news is that this doesn’t need stitches,” he declared. “The bad news is that you’re going to have bruises for the next week or so.”

“I’ve lived through worse,” Javert said brusquely. He tried to pull away, but Joly held him in place with surprising strength.

“Not yet, you don’t,” he said sternly. He pressed Javert’s nose in several places, resulting in a wince from Javert at each touch. Joly finally leaned back, apparently satisfied. “It’s not broken, either,” he declared, “but try to avoid pissing her off. It was close.”

“He’s okay, then?” Jean asked to ascertain, to which Joly nodded.

Fantine had finally extricated herself from Cosette’s embrace, and now approached Jean. “Monsieur le Maire,” she said teasingly.

“Jean, Fantine,” Jean countered, one of his arms wrapped around Javert’s shoulders. It looked a little bizarre, since Javert was almost ten centimeters taller than Jean, but nobody commented on the fact. “Please call me Jean.”

“You kept my daughter safe,” Fantine went on. “For that, I cannot repay you enough.”

Jean looked away. “It was nothing.”

“Nothing!” Fantine repeated loudly. “You are too humble, monsieur le saint.”

Jean winced. “Jean, please,” he entreated. “I am far from a saint, Fantine. You are elevating me to a height I do not deserve.”

Courfeyrac smirked. “He’s had that talk with all of us. Marius still refuses to listen.”

“Marius?” Fantine echoed.

Courfeyrac’s smirk widened. “Time for introductions!” he clapped his hands gleefully. He then went around the room, introducing every member of their group. “There’s one more,” he frowned. “His name is Grantaire, but he’s not here. Enjolras?” he called out to the blond, who had begun typing again, half of his mind listening to Courfeyrac’s introductions.

Enjolras looked up. “Yes?” he replied expectantly.

“Where’s R?” Courfeyrac wondered.

Enjolras paused, biting on his lower lip—a habit every member of their ragtag group seemed to have, to some extent, picked up. Courfeyrac had no idea where it had originated, but it was amusing to see everyone bite their lips without even noticing. “I believe he had some painting he wanted to work on,” he said finally. “I am not Grantaire’s guardian, Courfeyrac, nor do I keep tabs on his every movement now that the pipeline’s been repaired,” he said, admonishment in his voice.

“Charming as always,” Courfeyrac rolled his eyes, before turning back to Fantine. “Anyway, as I was saying…”

Javert took advantage of everyone’s distraction to step closer to Marius. “Thank you,” he said quietly into Marius’ ear.

Unfortunately for them, Cosette had overheard Javert’s words.

“Marius?” Cosette’s eyes narrowed as she looked back and forth between the two men. “What’s going on?”

Marius blanched. He exchanged a long look with Javert. The former inspector finally cleared his throat. “As you have presumably been told by Marius, he owed me two guns. I cashed in that favour.”

“In the form of…?” Cosette trailed off, before her eyes widened in realization. She turned to Javert. “You would do it for me?”

“He _had_ done it for you,” Marius corrected her, squeezing her hand.

Javert didn’t meet Cosette’s eyes when he said, “I simply did not see any drawbacks to finding your mother, if she was indeed alive.”

“You trusted my hunch,” Cosette said in wonder.

“I wouldn’t say—“ Javert began.

“Learn to take a compliment, baby bro,” Gavroche said from the corner.

Javert frowned. “I am the older one,” he reminded his brother.

“You don’t act it,” Gavroche countered.

Javert snorted. “As if you—“ any further words were cut short by a pair of arms wrapping themselves around his neck. Javert stiffened and didn’t speak.

“You’re choking him,” Jean pointed out.

Cosette let go of Javert with a sheepish expression on her face. “Sorry,” she said. “But that was an amazingly kind thing to do, Javert!”

“I think we’d better leave,” Jean cut in before Javert could anew begin rejecting compliments left and right.

Combeferre nodded. “That would be best, I think,” he cast a sideways glance at Marius, who studied Fantine with undisguised curiosity.

“I’ll speak with you later,” Fantine told Jean.

The corners of Jean’s mouth rose up, forming a smile. “It will be a pleasure.”

* * *

Enjolras sometimes—the frequency ranging from two nights a week whenever Grantaire was around, to five when he was not—pulled all-nighters, surviving the next day on an unhealthy amount of caffeine and sheer willpower. Around midnight, he tended to write essays on whatever was on his mind that day, then send it to Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Grantaire for proofreading. Well, Combeferre and Courfeyrac were for proofreading, while the purpose of including Grantaire was that he pinpointed the flaws in his reasoning, sometimes in a single sentence, sometimes in a two-page email filled with existential ramblings, sent at five in the morning because Grantaire was a painter and therefore up at the _crack of stupid._ Enjolras wouldn’t admit it out loud, but Grantaire’s responses were often the highlight of his day, sparking discussions that, on one memorable occasion, lasted a full two weeks.

It was during one of his infamous all-nighters that Enjolras, with the air of someone four espressos and a cup of whatever-the-hell-Combeferre-put-in-his-coffee into three twenty-seven in the morning, suddenly smashed his head against the tabletop at the library.

Grantaire loved the campus library for several reasons, but the main reason was that it was always open. The second reason was that, as a result of the first reason, the unfortunate creatures working the night shift operated, for the most part, on copious amounts of coffee. What followed was that, between midnight and six in the morning, various energy drinks were not so much allowed in the library as accepted as a necessary evil.

Grantaire—twenty-seven hours, not that he kept track—put down the encyclopedia. He adjusted his glasses before peering at Enjolras. “Are you okay?”

Enjolras lifted his head long enough to scowl. “No,” he said succinctly. “I don't have the time to finish this,” he waved his hands haphazardly, gesturing at several half-finished documents—yet more articles, if Grantaire had to guess. It seemed that that was all Enjolras was doing these days: holding speeches and writing articles to Important Papers. Even his ever-growing blog had been forced to take a backseat among the chaos.

Grantaire snorted. “Apollo, you’ve adopted too many causes,” he told him frankly. “You can’t be fighting for awareness for the disabled while simultaneously trying to combat prejudice for people living with HIV, all the while debating sexists and racists and homophobes and everyone else. There is only so much time in one day. And I know that you’re thinking about adopting that snake you found in the shelter, but we both know that Spock doesn’t like to share attention,” he added sharply.

“R—“ Enjolras warned.

“What?” Grantaire shrugged. “I’m simply saying what everyone else was thinking.”

At that, Enjolras looked around, as if he’d be able to spot said ‘everyone else’ and give them a piece of his mind, but the only other person present in the library was Combeferre, sitting two tables over, who was observing them with amusement.

Enjolras rubbed his temples, then rose abruptly, stalking over to an arbitrary bookshelf, intending to clear his mind.

Combeferre chuckled. “And here you can spot the ever elusive Enjolrasus Rousseaus,” he murmured in a narrator voice he had picked up from binge-watching bird documentaries with Enjolras on Netflix. “As previously seen in _Le Peuple Migrateur_ , this specimen feeds mainly on coffee and the occasional croissant. The majority of their energy is consumed by frequent lectures.

Ignoring Combeferre, Grantaire stood up. He approached Enjolras, putting a hand on his shoulder. He absentmindedly savoured the feeling of Enjolras’ jacket beneath his fingers. “Maybe call it a night,” Grantaire suggested.

“Following Enjolrasus Rousseaus is the wild Grantaire,” Combeferre continued. “As is shown, the Grantaire shows concern for the health of the Enjolrasus Rousseaus. It is highly unusual for two creatures with such incompatible habits to tolerate each other—especially considering that the diet of the Grantaire differs greatly from the diet of the Enjolrasus Rousseaus—which makes it the more remarkable that these two specimens have been able to create a bond as close as this one.”

“Shut up, Ferre,” Grantaire muttered. “Isn’t Courf waiting for you?”

“Nope,” Combeferre drawled. “He, unlike you, has good sleeping habits.”

“Unlike _us_?” Enjolras scoffed. “In case you’ve forgotten, you’re here with us, Combeferre.”

Combeferre unscrewed his thermos, drinking straight out of it. “I’m here to mare sure we still have a library after you’re done with it. If you recall, the one time I left you unsupervised here during the night, you broke a vase.”

“It was _once_ ,” Enjolras protested.

“Well, I’ve _never_ broken a vase,” Combeferre said, the tone of his voice final, “and I’ve been to the library times more than the two of you combined.”

Enjolras opened his mouth to argue, but Grantaire beat him to it. “On one condition,” he said.

Combeferre pursed his mouth. “What condition is that?” he asked.

“That we establish Enjolras’ clothing choices as an item on our agenda,” Grantaire grinned unabashedly, ignoring Enjolras’ wounded glower.

Combeferre smirked. “For the price of successfully getting Enjolras to rest?” He pretended to think. “You know what? It sounds like a fair trade-off.”

* * *

Courfeyrac stared at Enjolras in silence. Enjolras blinked. Courfeyrac glanced at Grantaire, who was steadfastly avoiding his eyes, a smirk dancing on his lips as he sketched Enjolras’ face for the seventh time that day. The previous six drafts had been crumbled up and thrown in the general direction of the recycle bin, though only one had successfully found its way into said bin. 

Courfeyrac finally turned to Combeferre. “Please tell me that this is Enjolras’ idea of a prank,” he pleaded, “because I refuse to believe that he is quite _that_ oblivious.” Combeferre didn’t reply. Courfeyrac resolutely resolved to take that as a denial, he really did. Dear Lord. “Someone really needs to tell Enjolras about the birds and the bees. I don’t care if he’s aro or ace or a fucking _alien_ , he needs to know the basics of human reproduction,” Courfeyrac closed his eyes, running his fingers through his hair. “I'd suggest telling Marius, but he seems to have figured it out with Cosette.” He paused, then suddenly turned back to Combeferre with a shit-eating grin. “Ferre, can you do it?”

Combeferre shrugged. “Sure.” He straightened his back, turning so that he was facing Enjolras. “They're disappearing at an alarming rate,” he said solemnly.

Courfeyrac gritted his teeth. “This isn't what I meant,” His voice was exasperated.

Combeferre grinned. “You told me to tell Enjolras about the birds and the bees. That's what I'm doing. Actually,” he pondered, scrunching up his face, “the bees are the ones in the most immediate danger, their population being mainly culled by pollution, although the rising water temperatures and the loss of their natural habitat, in the form of industrialization, is also a legitimate threat. On a completely unrelated topic,” he said suddenly, “did you know that brain cells cannibalize themselves as a last ditch source of energy to ward off starvation? Which means that dieting can, in very real ways, force your brain to eat itself.”

“That’s it—you’ve lost your book privileges,” Courfeyrac told him firmly.

“Another thing I read in an anatomy book is that, contrary to prevailing medical belief, having high total cholesterol is not bad for your brain. In fact, it actually reduces your risk of dementia,” Combeferre went on, ignoring Courfeyrac with practiced ease.

“ _Honestly_ ,” Courfeyrac sighed, “it’s times like these that I wonder what I see in you. I mean, at least Enjolras has his celestial beauty that makes everyone swoon or get an inappropriate hard-on—sometimes both at once, which is a sight in and of itself—but you?”

“It must be my geeky charm,” Combeferre said cheekily, grinning up at Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac returned it. “Yeah, I suppose you must be right. Nerd,” he said affectionately, before capturing Combeferre’s lips in a long kiss, drawing a quiet moan from Combeferre.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Can you guys take it elsewhere? I’m trying to get some _actual_ work done.”

Courfeyrac and Combeferre separated reluctantly, and Courfeyrac smirked. “Technically, since it’s a _French_ kiss, so are we. We’re advocating the equality of all kisses.”

“The fairness of all actions,” Combeferre picked up.

“The sensuality of all senses,” Courfeyrac finished.

Enjolras drummed his fingernails against the tabletop. “That last one didn’t even make sense. Besides, it isn’t a valid excuse,” he continued, and anyway, remember when Courfeyrac, way back when, knocked up that young woman? Did he really want to act so irresponsibly again?

To this, Courfeyrac retorted that there's nowadays this thing called birth prevention, and anyway, Enjolras would need to be more specific about which girl he meant because the phrase ‘that young woman in place of actual names conveyed infinite shades and was far too vague to pin any legitimate allegiations against his person.

To which Enjolras made this face that meant he was screaming internally. This was the part that Courfeyrac enjoyed the most. He said as much.

Enjolras glowered. “Your definition of fun is bizarre.”

“Whatever you say, mon chéri.”

“Should I be jealous that you’re flirting with Enjolras more than with me?” Combeferre quirked an eyebrow teasingly.

In response, Courfeyrac wrapped his arms around Combeferre, pressing him against his chest. “You,” he said with emphasis, “are usually too busy dissecting some unfortunate corpse, or whatever it is med students do all day long, to flirt.”

“I do so flirt!” Combeferre protested.

“Making a joke about a 3,14 meters long snake doesn’t count as flirting,” Courfeyrac parried. “If I have to hear one more π joke, I swear I’ll scream.”

The odd thing, Courfeyrac reflected, was that if he did scream, none of the patrons of the coffee shop would have even batted an eye.

“Rude,” Grantaire mumbled, his words nearly illegible due to the pencil clenched between his teeth. He looked up at Enjolras, narrowing his eyes, before looking down again and sketching something furiously.

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “Just because _you_ accept every single one of your beau’s annoying habits without a word, doesn’t mean that everyone else does.”

“Marius and Cosette do,” Combeferre replied evenly.

“Marius and Cosette are the exception.”

“Let’s be real here,” Grantaire cut in. “None of us is actually a responsible adult.”

Courfeyrac snickered. “Are you saying that we need someone who can successfully adult?”

Grantaire shrugged. “More or less.”

The door to the coffee shop opened. “Speak of the devil,” Courfeyrac said as Jehan entered.

Jehan’s face shone up when he spotted the four friends. “Mes amis, I have something to show you!” he beamed. This caught the attention of everyone but Grantaire, whom Courfeyrac nudged with an elbow.

Jehan cleared his throat, then read: 

> Ten little barricade boys defended France's shrine,  
>  One was stabbed with a bayonet, and then there were nine.
> 
> Nine little barricade boys fought on the barricade,  
>  One was taken prisoner— _Vive l'avenir!_ —and then there were eight.
> 
> (One brave girl saved her beloved's life,  
>  The bullet pierced her body and hand, casting her into the eternal night.)
> 
> (The brave girl's brother, with song in his heart, his body with divinity aglow,  
>  Went looking for spare cartridges, his body with bullets torn apart, on his lips frozen the word——)
> 
> Eight little barricade boys fought on, their position hapless,  
>  A student of the law grinned, even at the end, having in these matters had practice.
> 
> A working-man, one of seven left, had adopted the people as his kin,  
>  Orphaning that family at the émeute, whether by bullet or sword, was his greatest sin.
> 
> Out of the six little barricade boys, one had previously been spared,  
>  But alas! he then perished, determined to have others’ fate shared.
> 
> Five little barricade boys, their glorious illusion shattered with a gun’s blast,  
>  A doctor’s last thought: of every illness abound, that wasn’t what killed him at last.
> 
> Four little barricade boys now only remained,  
>  A guide was pierced with a bayonet, having from slaughter abstained.
> 
> Three little barricade boys accepted their life’s eclipse,  
>  One’s light was cut short by eight bullets, a smile adorning his virgin lips.
> 
> Another, preferring death with his beloved to life without,  
>  Reached for the other’s hand with a love always devout.
> 
> One little barricade boy, left all alone,  
>  Returned to the barricade, grieving for his friends, his heart turning to stone.
> 
> Ten little barricade boys, sacrificed in vain,  
>  Who speaks of them now, except with disdain?
> 
> Their blood is on the walls, dripping to the floor,  
>  There were once ten of them—now, they are no more.

Nobody spoke after Jehan finished. Granted, the people around them were still talking, but the outside noise felt more like a distant buzz than conversations.

The expression on Jehan’s face was sheepish. “So what do you think?” he asked tentatively.

Combeferre let out a breath. “That was—“

“Heart-wrenching and absolutely beautiful,” Enjolras spoke. “I applaud you. Is that what you’ve been working on?” Jehan nodded. “That was magnificent. Grantaire, what do you think?” He got no response. Frowning, he turned to Grantaire. “Grantaire?” he repeated.

Grantaire’s body had become as still as Lot’s wife.

Enjolras stepped up to Grantaire, taking his left hand. “Are you okay?”

His words seemed to snap Grantaire out of whatever state he had fallen into. He glanced at Jehan, then at Enjolras. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said forcefully.

Enjolras remained unconvinced. “We should go,” he said, the words more of a command than a statement.

He let go of Grantaire’s hand for long enough to pack up his laptop and grab Grantaire’s sketchbook and pens. He then turned to Jehan. “It was lovely,” he repeated.

“But—“

“We will talk later,” Enjolras said, cutting short any protests.

“Well,” Courfeyrac said slowly when the door closed behind Enjolras and Grantaire, “that was unexpected.”

Combeferre rolled his eyes. “Don’t be an asshole, Courf. You don’t know how Grantaire remembers that day. Show some respect.”

* * *

In honour of Bossuet’s birthday, Bahorel and Feuilly decided to throw a party. It had also, Enjolras gathered, been an excuse to celebrate having survived the entire semester and to relax. Enjolras, for his part, didn’t understand what was relaxing about drinking alcohol until one’s judgement became clouded enough to, as exemplified by Jehan, mistake two people as different as day and night—but to each their own, he supposed.

Cosette had a patient look on her face, despite the fact that Jehan simply wouldn’t stop hugging her. “’Jo’ras,” Jehan said drunkedly, waving the beer he had been handed by Courfeyrac after the latter deemed him too lightweight for anything stronger.

“I’m not Enjolras,” Cosette repeated for the third time with amusement. If it had been Musichetta, Enjolras thought—or, God forbid, _Éponine—_ Jehan would already have been sporting several bruises. “I’m Cosette, mon chou.”

Enjolras snorted. The endearment had never been more accurate—Jehan’s mind seemed, in that moment, little more than cabbage.

“Let’s play something,” Feuilly said suddenly. His words came out relatively normal, with only a hint of a slur. “A drinking game.”

Combeferre, one of the few people who hadn’t gotten utterly sloshed yet, shook his head. “I doubt that what we need is more drinking,” he gestured discreetly at Jehan with the hand not holding a glass of wine (because, as he had put it, he didn’t like drinking the piss that passed for beer). Cosette waved back, before beginning to extricate herself from Jehan’s octopus arms. Marius eyed his girlfriend and Jehan speculatively, his addled mind trying to ascertain whether he needed to intervene, before blinking rapidly and giving up.

Enjolras couldn’t help but agree with Combeferre. As one of the three people—though the jury was still out on whether Javert could really be counted, considering that all he did was sit in the corner, leaning against Jean—who had abstained from drinking whatever booze Bahorel and Feuilly had managed to obtain, it was exasperating and more than a little pathetic to have to watch thirteen highly intelligent individuals forget their own names.

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe I’m saying this but— _Bossuet, stop meowing at the cat_ ,” he told Bossuet. He picked up the kitten Joly had, for no discernible reason, brought to the party. “With your luck, it will scratch your eyes out any minute now.” Grantaire lifted up the kitten to his eyes. It stared at him in critical silence for a solid five minutes. “Yeah, _no_ ,” Grantaire said laconically. “Sorry, chaton, but you aren’t going to mess with Bossuet. He kind of needs his eyes.”

Enjolras gave him an approving smile. Grantaire couldn’t help but preen a little, before remembering that he was neither a bird nor currently high, and _really fucking shouldn’t preen_.

Enjolras’ thoughts evidently went a similar way, because he frowned. “Have you been taking heroin again?” he whispered furiously, leaning in to Grantaire’s ear.

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “The last shot I took was back in November, Apollo,” he retorted. “No need to watch my every move.”

Enjolras bit back a sharp response. They were here to _have fun_ , he reminded himself, and despite strong evidence to the contrary, Grantaire would not be convinced that his habit was harmful to his friends as well.

Bossuet plumped down gracelessly on the floor, spilling a few drops of beer onto Joly’s shirt when he put down the bottle. He rolled over, landing almost in Grantaire’s lap. “Kitten?” he pouted, stretching out his arms

Grantaire sighed. He eyed Joly and Musichetta consideringly, then made a decision. “Joly, make sure your boyfriend doesn’t end up maimed by your kitten.”

Musichetta, Grantaire thought despondently, didn’t really seem to be in a state where she could be responsible for her own health, let alone anyone else’s.

Joly nodded, stumbling over to them. He gingerly grabbed Bossuet’s wrist, whispering something to Bossuet.

Grantaire sighed. “This isn’t as fun from the other end of the drink. The non-drinking end,” he clarified. “Is that what it has been for you to have to deal with me?” he asked Enjolras. “Before?”

Enjolras pursed his lips. “You had more control over your actions,” he conceded, “but essentially yes.”

Courfeyrac sat down next to Enjolras, throwing an arm around his shoulders. Enjolras tensed up before relaxing into the touch. Courfeyrac took a generous swing out of the wine bottle he had appropriated. "Folks," he said, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Let's play a game. Do, marry, kill. You can choose between those in this room."

Fantine groaned. She dragged her fingers across her face. “Courfeyrac, do you really think that’s a good idea?” she said rhetorically, glancing quickly around the room. “At the rate at which we’re drinking, I’d estimate that in ten minutes, the only conscious people will be gorgeous, lovesick, and inspector yonder,” she gestured at Enjolras, Grantaire, and Javert respectively.

“Eh,” Feuilly shrugged dismissively. “It’ll be fine. Believe me,” he grinned.

Fantine didn’t exactly look reassured. “Nobody says ‘believe me’ unless they are lying.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, but didn’t protest the idea. If anything, Courfeyrac later reflected, this should have been an indication that something was afoot. Enjolras never wanted to participate in any game where it was required to do anything even vaguely sexual. Enjolras was a prude like that.

Grantaire leaned against the wall. “Courf, since it was your idea, how about you start?” he prompted.

Courfeyrac smirked. “Thank you for asking, R, but my choice is really straightforward. Combeferre, Combeferre, and Javert.” Enjolras threw a quick look in Javert’s direction, but the former inspector didn’t react to Courfeyrac’s declaration.

Éponine frowned. “Isn’t it cheating to use the same person?”

Courfeyrac stuck out his tongue at her. “Screw you.”

“Kinky,” Éponine replied, taking a sip of her beer, “but I think I’ll pass. Guys,” she raised her voice, “rule specification: you can’t pick the same person twice—which _should have been obvious to begin with_ ,” she added sharply, glaring at Courfeyrac, who grinned unabashedly. “I choose Chetta, Cosette, and Feuilly, by the way,” she blew a kiss in Cosette’s direction. Cosette replied with a wink.

Feuilly smirked. He took another swing out of his bottle. “This is fun,” he grinned. “Quick aside: can I marry two people?”

Fantine shrugged. “Sure. I mean, as long as you don’t fuck and marry the same people.”

Feuilly swore. He bit his lip. “In that case, I’d marry Joly and fuck Bahorel.”

“And kill?”

“Courf,” he said instantly. “Sorry, Romeo.”

Courfeyrac grinned. “Should I be worried about the lack of hesitation?” Feuilly flipped him off. Courfeyrac clutched his chest theatrically. “You break my heart, mon amour. Truly.”

Cosette chose to marry Marius—to the surprise of exactly no one—but sleep with Éponine, causing more than a few interested looks, not the least from Éponine herself. She opted out of killing anyone, saying that they were all wonderful, really.

Marius picked Courfeyrac as his potential one night stand, Cosette as his spouse, and Bahorel as his murder victim.

Fantine’s choices were Enjolras, Jean, and Javert.

When asked, Joly mumbled something along the lines of “Don’t make me decide. I don’t want to die. Even if,” he amended, looking at Musichetta, who was drooling on his shoulder, “certain significant others aren’t listening right now, I know her. She’d find out, and she’d neuter me, no matter what I’d choose.”

Jean and Javert picked each other as spouses, clamping up tigher than a clam with lockjaw on the other parts. No amount of coaxing could get either of them to talk.

“Feuilly, Jehan, and Courfeyrac,” Bahorel said emphatically. “ _Fight me_.”

“Don’t fight him,” Enjolras said sharply. “I will cut the fingers off the first person who throws a punch tonight.”

Bahorel stared at Enjolras with narrowed eyes, perhaps trying to gauge his sincerity. He eventually  nodded.

“ _Szczęście ty moje,”_ Feuilly whispered into Bahorel’s ear in Polish, his slur more noticeable with every minute. “ _Kotku. Skarbie mój. Uspokuj się. Jeśli będziesz grzeczny, zerżnę cię w tyłek później._ ”

Bahorel blinked in confusion. “Mon ange, I don’t speak Polish. Does anyone speak Polish?” he asked the room at large. Everyone shook their heads. “Marius?”

“Sorry,” Marius said, rolling the ‘r’. “’s one of the few languages I’m not fluent in.”

Bahorel groaned as Feuilly kept whispering in his ear.

Fantine grinned. “Anyway, where were we?”

To Grantaire’s surprise, Combeferre picked him for the one night stand. He grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Combeferre’s head bobbed lethargically. “As you well should,” he said gravely. “What about you?”

Grantaire ran his tongue over his lips. “Well, I’d definitely marry Enjolras, if he’d have me,” he began slowly. “Sorry, Bahorel, but I’d kill you. And I’m going to have to pass on the third one.”

Courfeyrac groaned in disappointment.

"Enjolras," Bahorel drawled. "Your turn."

"Nobody, France, and currently you," Enjolras shot back instantaneously.

Bossuet scowled. "This isn't how it works, Enjolras," he told the blond. "You have to choose an actual person." He tried to poke Enjolras in the chest, but missed and poked his arm instead. “ _An actual_ _person_ ,” he repeated.

"Technically, you _didn't_ specify whether it had to be a person," Enjolras returned, "just that my choice had to be present in this room. Seeing as we _are_ in France, she is all-pervasive, and, therefore, this place."

"Enjolras—" Feuilly began, then sighed. He fixed an accusing glare on Combeferre. "You knew that this would happen, didn't you?"

Combeferre grooved unabashedly. "I've witnessed him find loopholes in seemingly infallible statements since we were six. You’re arguing with the person whose first goal as a lawyer will be legally banning dumb blonde jokes. You didn't stand a chance, mon cher Feuilly. Face it, this is the best you're going to get out of him. Pick your battles,” Combeferre paused. “You have to pick them in such a way as to make sure that they don’t necessarily have to be unwinnable, merely that they aren’t also as easy a win as, let’s say, world peace.”

Enjolras exchanged a look with Grantaire, worry spiking at Combeferre’s words. Grammatically, they were correct, and Combeferre took great pains/care to articulate every word carefully, but the sentence made exact zero sense.

Enjolras then shot a look at Javert, who seemed to be thinking along similar lines.

“Okay,” Enjolras stood up. “Time to break up the party.”

“But—“ Courfeyrac began.

“Look at you,” Enjolras demanded. “You’re drunk.”

“I'm fine,” Courfeyrac sputtered.

“You don't _look_ fine.”

“Then stop looking,” Courfeyrac scoffed. “We're all going to get high and fuck.” Enjolras choked. “I meant high as fuck,” Courfeyrac corrected with a smirk.

“No, you didn't,” Grantaire muttered.

Enjolras shot him a warning look. “Don’t you start as well.”

Grantaire raised his palms defensively.

Enjolras stood up, grabbing a bottle out of Courfeyrac’s hands, ignoring his protests. “Time to break up this party,” he said resolutely. “Preferably without any bruises,” he added for Bahorel’s benefit.

“Aye aye, notre roi,” Bahorel gave a sloppy salute. At Enjolras reprimanding look, he grinned. “Pardon, notre _représentant élu du peuple_. No monarchists here. None. Nope. Except maybe Javert.” Javert ignored Bahorel’s ramblings in favour of dragging Jean to the door, clearly intending to leave as quickly as possible.

“Are you leaving?” Courfeyrac asked, flabbergasted. “Already?”

“Yes,” Javert said curtly. He nodded to Enjolras and Grantaire. “See you tomorrow.”

With that, Javert and Jean left, abandoning Enjolras and Grantaire with a dozen of people in varying degrees of intoxication. With a sigh, Enjolras began clearing the bottles littering the floor.

Whoever said parties were fun had obviously never been sober at one.

**Author's Note:**

> Jehan’s poem is taken out of _The Old Astronomer_ by Sarah Williams. Enjolras’ rants are largely taken from various TED talks (which you should listen to, by the way, because the speakers make a much better case than I ever could).
> 
> Recommended reading: [Not-A-Date](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10930743) by maraudeuse and [Purple Is For Love](http://archiveofourown.org/works/748355/chapters/1396053) by SpiritsFlame. Recommended watching: [these TED talks](http://moosalicious.tumblr.com/post/147020678269/my-favourite-ted-talks).
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it! It would really make my day if you left a comment. Tell me what you thought :)


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